§§§§ §
§§§
*、、。
§§§§§-·· |-|-**º
ſaeiſ
§:ſſä:
Ēģ
9
§:
ſae
*、、、、、、、、、
¿§§№ț¢;
§§§§§
¿
º
º
º:
#
§%.
， ！§§33
№， º
¡¿
ſae;
¿
ſae
È
; $（'#'）;
ſae
$ $ $ $ 3，·
§§§
§§§§：
¿?
！！！！！！！!！
№ſ，
sº
¡ ¿
..º.º.
sº
∞ √
º:
sº
º
§§§
¿ : £
§§§

~~ ~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~ ~--~~~~ ~~~~ ~~--~--~~~~--~~~~.--._.--._.--...,~--~ ~--~~x~~~ -..-…--~--~~~~ -…--~~~.~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~. **~• • • • • • • • • …--• •••••••••^--.---*--（ -• … --~~~~.--~~~~------~--~~~~ ~~~. - & + … ~~~~ ~~~~ -… … * --~~~~ ~~~~ ~~--~~~~ .
ĒĻĻĽĮȚIĘĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪTĒ
• ! № №ſſae！！！?！！?！！?！！?！！?！！?！！?！！?！！?！！?！！?~，。、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、。、。--
ĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪİIĮĮĶĒŅĶĒŅĶÅ¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡ĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪİIĮĮĖ
WT
º
ñ
º
iſſ
ſ-
£--
№ —
–
º-
*----
*：）
----
■ ■"*
}），
±
ſ-a ）
■ ■
ſe-ſſ"
ſ
III
TTTTTT
Cº-CI-Cºlº
Im.
Źrž
ſēļāĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĒ
| . |ĒÎÎÏÏĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪİİİİİİİİİİ.
TTIII

273 y
C 28 6 &/º
/y : 7
CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS
ESSAYS :
COLLECTED AND REPUBLISHED.
BY
THOMAS CARLYLE.
IN FOUR WOLUMES.
WOL. IV.
LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193 PICCADILLY.
M.DCCC.LVII,
LONDON :
PRINTED BY Robson, Lever, AMD FRANKLYM,
Great New Street and Fetter Lane.
CONTENTS OF WOLUME IV.
—º-
THE DIAMond NECKLACE.
PAGE
Chap. I. Age of Romance . . . . * . . 1
II. The Necklace is made . e g * tº • 6
III. The Necklace cannot be sold . g e wº . 10
IV. Affinities: the Two Fixed-Ideas . wº & . 11
W. The Artist . o º te e © ſº . 20
VI. Will the Two Fixed-Ideas unite? . tº e ... 25
VII. Marie-Antoinette . g & * * g . 29
VIII. The Two Fixed-Ideas will unite . º º . 31
IX. Park of Versailles . º & & ſº tº . 34
X. Behind the Scenes . tº e † ſe ſº . 37
XI. The Necklace is sold . ge § o {} . 39
XII. The Necklace vanishes . g º º e . 43
XIII. Scene Third : by Dame de Lamotte o tº . 44
XIV. The Necklace cannot be paid ge tº tº 46
XV. Scene Fourth : by Destiny . tº & g . 50
XVI. Missa est o gº tº gº tº tº dº . 51
MIRABEAU º º & º ge se º iº tº . 61
PARLIAMENTARY HISTORY OF THE FRENCE REVOLUTION . . ll.9
SIR WALTER Scott . & tº e e & ſº * . 135
WARNHAGEN won ENSE's MEMOIRS . tº g tº * . 185
PETITION ON THE COPYRIGHT BILL . tº * * tº . 207
ON THE SINKING OF THE WENGEUR . g ſº * * . 209
BAILLIE THE CovKNANTER te wº * º g « » . 223
DR. FRANCIA . & ſº ſº tº * & º * . 249
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARLIAMENT . • • º . 295
Two-HUNDRED-AND-FIFTY YEARS AGo . ſº tº g . 315
THE OPERA . º * ſº e tº e o e . 325
PROJECT of A NATIONAL ExEIBITION OF ScottisB PortRAITs . 330
THE PRINZENRAUB . º º * o tº º tº . .338
SUMMARY OF ContFNTs . º Q & e * gº . 365
INDEX . o º tº i. tº º tº e . 383
MISCELLANIES.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE.1
[1837.]
CHAPTER I.
Age of Romance.
THE Age of Romance has not ceased; it never ceases; it does not,
if we will think of it, so much as very sensibly decline. “The pas-
sions are repressed by social forms; great passions no longer
show themselves?” Why, there are passions still great enough
to replenish Bedlam, for it never wants tenants; to suspend men
from bed-posts, from improved-drops at the west end of Newgate.
A passion that explosively shivers asunder the Life it took rise in,
ought to be regarded as considerable : more no passion, in the
highest heyday of Romance, yet did. The passions, by grace of
the Supernal and also of the Infernal Powers (for both have a
hand in it), can never fail us.
And then, as to ‘social forms,’ be it granted that they are of
the most buckram quality, and bind men up into the pitifullest
straitlaced commonplace existence,—you ask, Where is the Ro-
mance 2 In the Scotch way one answers, Where is it not? That
very spectacle of an Immortal Nature, with faculties and destiny
extending through Eternity, hampered and bandaged up, by nurses,
pedagogues, posturemasters, and the tongues of innumerable old
women (named “force of public opinion'); by prejudice, custom,
want of knowledge, want of money, want of strength, into, say, the
meagre Pattern-Figure that, in these days, meets you in all tho-
* FRASER'S MAGAZINE, Nos. 85 and 86.
VOL. I.W. R
2 MISCELLANIES.
roughfares: a “god-created Man, all but abnegating the character
of Man; forced to exist, automatised, mummy-wise (scarcely in
rare moments audible or visible from amid his wrappages and cere-
ments), as Gentleman or Gigman;' and so selling his birthright
of Eternity for the three daily meals, poor at best, which Time
yields:–is not this spectacle itself highly romantic, tragical, if we
had eyes to look at it? The high-born (highest-born, for he came
out of Heaven) lies drowning in the despicablest puddles; the price-
less gift of Life, which he can have but once, for he waited a whole
Eternity to be born, and now has a whole Eternity waiting to see
what he will do when born,-this priceless gift we see strangled
slowly out of him by innumerable packthreads; and there remains
of the glorious Possibility, which we fondly named Man, nothing
but an inanimate mass of foul loss and disappointment, which we
wrap in shrouds and bury underground,-Surely with well-merited
tears. To the Thinker here lies Tragedy enough; the epitome
and marrow of all Tragedy whatsoever.
But so few are Thinkers? Ay, Reader, so few think; there is
the rub Not one in the thousand has the smallest turn for think-
ing; only for passive dreaming and hearsaying, and active bab-
bling by rote. Of the eyes that men do glare withal so few can
see. Thus is the world become such a fearful confused Treadmill;
and each man's task has got entangled in his neighbour's, and
pulls it awry; and the Spirit of Blindness, Falsehood and Distrac-
tion, justly named the Devil, continually maintains himself among
us; and even hopes (were it not for the Opposition, which by
God's grace will also maintain itself) to become supreme. Thus
too, among other things, has the Romance of Life gone wholly out
of sight: and all History, degenerating into empty invoice-lists of
Pitched Battles and Changes of Ministry; or, still worse, into
‘Constitutional History,” or “Philosophy of History,' or “Philoso-
phy teaching by Experience,' is become dead, as the Almanacs of
other years, to which species of composition, indeed, it bears, in
several points of view, no inconsiderable affinity.
“Of all blinds that shut-up men's vision,’ says one, ‘the worst
is Self.' How true ! How doubly true, if Self, assuming her cun-
ningest, yet miserablest disguise, come on us, in never-ceasing, all-
obscuring reflexes from the innumerable Selves of others; not as
Pride, not even as real Hunger, but only as Vanity, and the shadow
of an imaginary Hunger for Applause; under the name of what we
call ‘Respectability!” Alas now for our Historian: to his other spi-
ritual deadness (which however, so long as he physically breathes,
! “I always considered him a respectable man.-What do you mean by re-
spectable : He kept a Gig.’—Thurtell's Tréal.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 3
cannot be considered complete) this sad new magic influence is
added ! Henceforth his Histories must all be screwed up into
the ‘dignity of History.’ Instead of looking fixedly at the Thing,
and first of all, and beyond all, endeavouring to see it, and fashion
a living Picture of it, not a wretched politico-metaphysical Abstrac-
tion of it, he has now quite other matters to look to. The Thing
lies shrouded, invisible, in thousandfold hallucinations, and foreign
air-images: What did the Whigs say of it? What did the Tories?
The Priests? The Freethinkers? Above all, What will my own
listening circle say of me for what I say of it? And then his Re-
spectability in general, as a literary gentleman; his not despicable
talent for philosophy | Thus is our poor Historian's faculty di-
rected mainly on two objects: the Writing and the Writer, both of
which are quite extraneous; and the Thing written-of fares as we
see. Can it be wonderful that Histories, wherein open lying is not
permitted, are unromantic? Nay, our very Biographies, how stiff.
starched, foisonless, hollow ! They stand there respectable; and
—what more? Dumb idols; with a skin of delusively painted
wax-work; inwardly empty, or full of rags and bran. In our Eng-
land especially, which in these days is become the chosen land of
Respectability, Life-writing has dwindled to the sorrowfullest con-
dition; it requires a man to be some disrespectable, ridiculous
Boswell before he can write a tolerable Life. Thus too, strangely
enough, the only Lives worth reading are those of Players, emp-
tiest and poorest of the sons of Adam; who nevertheless were sons
of his, and brothers of ours; and by the nature of the case, had
already bidden Respectability good-day. Such bounties, in this
as in infinitely deeper matters, does Respectability shower down
on us. Sad are thy doings, O Gig ; sadder than those of Jugger-
naut's Car: that, with huge wheel, suddenly crushes asunder the
bodies of men; thou, in thy light-bobbing Long-Acre springs, gra-
dually winnowest away their souls
Depend upon it, for one thing, good Reader, no age ever seemed
the Age of Romance to itself. Charlemagne, let the Poets talk as
they will, had his own provocations in the world: what with sell-
ing of his poultry and pot-herbs, what with wanton daughters car-
rying secretaries through the snow; and, for instance, that hang-
ing of the Saxons over the Weser-bridge (four thousand of them,
they say, at one bout), it seems to me that the Great Charles had
his temper ruffled at times. Roland of Roncesvalles too, we see
well in thinking of it, found rainy weather as well as sunny; knew
what it was to have hose need darning; got tough beef to chew, or
even went dinnerless; was saddle-sick, calumniated, constipated
(as his madness too clearly indicates); and oftenest felt, I doubt
4 MISCELLANIES.
not, that this was a very Devil's world, and he, Roland himself, one
of the sorriest caitiffs there. Only in long subsequent days, when
the tough beef, the constipation and the calumny had clean van-
ished, did it all begin to seem Romantic, and your Turpins and
Ariostos found music in it. So, I say, is it ever! And the more,
as your true hero, your true Roland, is ever unconscious that he is
a hero: this is a condition of all greatness.
In our own poor Nineteenth Century, the Writer of these lines
has been fortunate enough to see not a few glimpses of Romance;
he imagines this Nineteenth is hardly a whit less romantic than
that Ninth, or any other, since centuries began. Apart from Na-
poleon, and the Dantons, and Mirabeaus, whose fire-words of pub-
lic speaking, and fire-whirlwinds of cannon and musketry, which
for a season darkened the air, are perhaps at bottom but superficial
phenomena, he has witnessed, in remotest places, much that could
be called romantic, even miraculous. He has witnessed overhead
the infinite Deep, with greater and lesser lights, bright-rolling,
silent-beaming, hurled forth by the Hand of God: around him
and under his feet, the wonderfullest Earth, with her winter snow-
storms and her summer spice-airs; and, unaccountablest of all,
himself standing there. He stood in the lapse of Time; he saw
Eternity behind him, and before him. The all-encircling myste-
rious tide of ForcE, thousandfold (for from force of Thought to
force of Gravitation what an interval!) billowed shoreless on ; bore
him too along with it, he too was part of it. From its bosom rose
and vanished, in perpetual change, the lordliest Real-Phantasma-
gory, which men name Being ; and ever anew rose and vanished;
and ever that lordliest many-coloured scene was full, another yet
the same. Oak-trees fell, young acorns sprang: Men too, new-
sent from the Unknown, he met, of tiniest size, who waxed into
stature, into strength of sinew, passionate fire and light: in other
men the light was growing dim, the sinews all feeble; they sank,
motionless, into ashes, into invisibility; returned back to the Un-
known, beckoning him their mute farewell. He wanders still by
the parting-spot; cannot hear them; they are far, how far !—It was
a sight for angels, and archangels; for, indeed, God himself had
made it wholly. One many-glancing asbestos-thread in the Web
of Universal-History, spirit-woven, it rustled there, as with the
howl of mighty winds, through that ‘wild-roaring Loom of Time.’
Generation after generation, hundreds of them or thousands of
them, from the unknown Beginning, so loud, so stormful-busy,
rushed torrent-wise, thundering down, down; and fell all silent,
nothing but some feeble re-echo, which grew ever feebler, strug-
gling up ; and Oblivion swallowed them all. Thousands more, to
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 5.
the unknown Ending, will follow: and thou here, of this present
one, hangest as a drop, still sungilt, on the giddy edge; one mo-
ment, while the Darkness has not yet engulfed thee. O Brother
is that what thou callest prosaic; of small interest? Of small in-
terest and for thee? Awake, poor troubled sleeper: shake off thy
torpid nightmare-dream; look, see, behold it, the Flame-image;
splendours high as Heaven, terrors deep as Hell: this is God's
Creation; this is Man's Life —Such things has the Writer of
these lines witnessed, in this poor Nineteenth Century of ours;
and what are all such to the things he yet hopes to witness 2
Hopes, with truest assurance. “I have painted so much,' said the
good Jean Paul, in his old days, “and I have never seen the Ocean;
the Ocean of Eternity I shall not fail to see ''
Such being the intrinsic quality of this Time, and of all Time
whatsoever, might not the Poet who chanced to walk through it
find objects enough to paint? What object soever he fixed on,
were it the meanest of the mean, let him but paint it in its actual
truth, as it swims there, in such environment; world-old, yet new
and never-ending; an indestructible portion of the miraculous
All,—his picture of it were a Poem. How much more if the ob-
ject fixed on were not mean, but one already wonderful; the mys-
tic ‘actual truth’ of which, if it lay not on the surface, yet shone
through the surface, and invited even Prosaists to search for it !
The present Writer, who unhappily belongs to that class, has
nevertheless a firmer and firmer persuasion of two things: first,
as was seen, that Romance exists; secondly, that now, and for-
merly, and evermore it exists, strictly speaking, in Reality alone.
The thing that is, what can be so wonderful; what, especially to
us that are, can have such significance? Study Reality, he is ever
and anon saying to himself; search out deeper and deeper its quite
endless mystery: see it, know it; then, whether thou wouldst learn
from it, and again teach; or weep over it, or laugh over it, or love
it, or despise it, or in any way relate thyself to it, thou hast the
firmest enduring basis: that hieroglyphic page is one thou canst
read on forever, find new meaning in forever.
Finally, and in a word, do not the critics teach us : “In what-
‘soever thing thou hast thyself felt interest, in that or in nothing
‘hope to inspire others with interest?'—In partial obedience to
all which, and to many other principles, shall the following small
Romance of the Diamond Necklace begin to come together. A small
Romance, let the reader again and again assure himself, which is
no brainweb of mine, or of any other foolish man's; but a fraction
of that mystic ‘spirit-woven web, from the ‘Loom of Time,' spoken
of above. . It is an actual Transaction that happened in this Earth
6 MISCELLANIES.
of ours. Wherewith our whole business, as already urged, is to
paint it truly.
For the rest, an earnest inspection, faithful endeavour has not
been wanting, on our part; nor, singular as it may seem, the
strictest regard to chronology, geography (or rather in this case,
topography), documentary evidence, and what else true historical
research would yield. Were there but on the reader's part a kin-
dred openness, a kindred spirit of endeavour! Beshone strongly,
on both sides, by such united twofold Philosophy, this poor opaque
Intrigue of the Diamond Necklace might become quite translucent
between us; transfigured, lifted up into the serene of Universal-
History; and might hang there like a smallest Diamond Constella-
tion, visible without telescope, so long as it could. -
CHAPTER II.
The Necklace is made.
Herr, or as he is now called Monsieur, Boehmer, to all appear-
ance wanted not that last infirmity of noble and ignoble minds—
a love of fame; he was destined also to be famous more than
enough. His outlooks into the world were rather of a smiling
character: he has long since exchanged his guttural speech, as far
as possible, for a nasal one; his rustic Saxon fatherland for a po-
lished city of Paris, and thriven there. United in partnership with
worthy Monsieur Bassange, a sound practical man, skilled in the
valuation of all precious stones, in the management of workmen,
in the judgment of their work, he already sees himself among the
highest of his guild: nay, rather the very highest,-for he has se-
cured, by purchase and hard money paid, the title of King's Jew-
eller; and can enter the Court itself, leaving all other Jewellers,
and even innumerable Gentlemen, Gigmen and small Nobility, to
languish in the vestibule. With the costliest ornaments in his
pocket, or borne after him by assiduous shopboys, the happy Boeh-
mer sees high drawing rooms and sacred ruelles fly open, as with
talismanic Sesame; and the brightest eyes of the whole world grow
brighter: to him alone of men the Unapproachable reveals herself
in mysterious négligee, taking and giving counsel. Do not, on all
gala-days and gala-nights, his works praise him? On the gorgeous
robes of State, on Court-dresses and Lords' stars, on the diadem of
Royalty; better still, on the swan-neck of Beauty, and her queenly
garniture from plume-bearing aigrette to shoebuckle on fairy-slip-
per-that blinding play of colours is Boehmer's doing : he is
Joaillier-Bijoutier de la Reine.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 7
Could the man but have been content with it ! He could not:
Icarus-like, he must mount too high; have his wax-wings melted,
and descend prostrate-amid a cloud of vain goose-quills. One
day, a fatal day (of some year, probably, among the Seventies of last
Century"), it struck Boehmer: Why should not I, who, as Most
Christian King's Jeweller, am properly first Jeweller of the Uni-
verse, make a Jewel which the Universe has not matched 2 No-
thing can prevent thee, Boehmer, if thou have the skill to do it.
Skill or no skill, answers he, I have the ambition: my Jewel, if
not the beautifullest, shall be the dearest. Thus was the Diamond
Necklace determined on.
Did worthy Bassange give a willing, or a reluctant consent?
In any case he consents; and coöperates. Plans are sketched,
consultations held, stucco models made ; by money or credit the
costliest diamonds come in; cunning craftsmen cut them, set them:
proud Boehmer sees the work go prosperously on. Proud man
Behold him on a morning after breakfast: he has stepped down
to the innermost workshop, before sallying out; stands there with
his laced three-cornered hat, cane under arm ; drawing-on his
gloves: with nod, with nasal-guttural word, he gives judicious con-
firmation, judicious abnegation, censure and approval. A still joy
is dawning over that bland, blond face of his ; he can think, while
in many a sacred boudoir he visits the Unapproachable, that an
opus magnum, of which the world wotteth not, is progressing. At
length comes a morning when care has terminated, and joy can
not only dawn but shine; the Necklace, which shall be famous and
world-famous, is made.
Made we call it, in conformity with common speech: but pro-
perly it was not made ; only, with more or less spirit of method,
arranged and agglomerated. What spirit of method lay in it,
might be made ; nothing more. But to tell the various Histories
of those various Diamonds, from the first making of them ; or
even, omitting all the rest, from the first digging of them in the
far Indian mines How they lay, for uncounted ages and aeons
(under the uproar and splashing of such Deucalion Deluges, and
Hutton Explosions, with steam enough, and Werner Submersions),
silently imbedded in the rock; did nevertheless, when their hour
came, emerge from it, and first beheld the glorious Sun smile on
them, and with their many-coloured glances smiled back on him.
How they served next, let us say, as eyes of Heathen Idols, and
! Except that Madame Campan (Mémoires, tome ii.) says the Necklace
‘ was intended for Du Barry,” one cannot discover, within many years, the date
of its manufacture. Du Barry went ‘into half-pay' on the 10th of May 1774,-
the day when her king died.
8 MISCELLANIES.
received worship. How they had then, by fortune of war or theft,
been knocked out; and exchanged among camp-sutlers for a little
spirituous liquor, and bought by Jews, and worn as signets on
the fingers of tawny or white Majesties; and again been lost, with
the fingers too, and perhaps life (as by Charles the Rash, among
the mud-ditches of Nancy), in old-forgotten glorious victories: and
so, through innumerable varieties of fortune,—had come at last to
the cutting-wheel of Boehmer; to be united, in strange fellowship,
with comrades also blown together from all ends of the Earth, each
with a History of its own Could these aged stones, the youngest
of them Six Thousand years of age and upwards, but have spoken,
there were an Experience for Philosophy to teach by 1–But now,
as was said, by little caps of gold, and daintiest rings of the same,
they are all being, so to speak, enlisted under Boehmer's flag,
made to take rank and file, in new order, no Jewel asking his
neighbour whence he came ; and parade there for a season. For
a season only; and then—to disperse, and enlist anew ad infinitum.
In such inexplicable wise are Jewels, and Men also, and indeed all
earthly things, jumbled together and asunder, and shovelled and
wafted to and fro, in our inexplicable chaos of a World. This was
what Boehmer called making his Necklace.
So, in fact, do other men speak, and with even less reason.
How many men, for example, hast thou heard talk of making
money; of making, say, a million and a half of money 2 Of which
million and half, how much, if one were to look into it, had they
made 3 The accurate value of their Industry; not a sixpence
more. Their making, then, was but, like Boehmer's, a clutching
and heaping together;-by-and-by to be followed also by a disper-
sion. Made 2 Thou too vain individual were these towered ash-
lar edifices; were these fair bounteous leas, with their bosky um-
brages and yellow harvests; and the sunshine that lights them
from above, and the granite rocks and fire-reservoirs that support
them from below, made by thee 3 I think, by another. The very
shilling that thou hast was dug, by man's force, in Carinthia and
Paraguay; smelted sufficiently ; and stamped, as would seem, not
without the advice of our late Defender of the Faith, his Majesty
George the Fourth. Thou hast it, and holdest it; but whether, or
in what sense, thou hast made any farthing of it, thyself canst
not say. If the courteous reader ask, What things, then, are
made by man 2 I will answer him, Very few indeed. A Heroism,
a Wisdom (a god-given Wolition that has realised itself), is made
now and then : for example, some five or six Books, since the
Creation, have been made. Strange that there are not more : for
surely every encouragement is held out. Could I, or thou, happy
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. . 9
reader, but make one, the world would let us keep it unstolen for
Fourteen whole years, and take what we could get for it.
But, in a word, Monsieur Boehmer has made his Necklace,
what he calls made it : happy man is he. From a Drawing, as
large as reality, kindly furnished by ‘Taunay, Printseller, of the
Rue d'Enfer;” and again, in late years, by the Abbé Georgel, in
the Second Volume of his Mémoires, curious readers can still fancy
to themselves what a princely Ornament it was. A row of seven-
teen glorious diamonds, as large almost as filberts, encircle, not
too tightly, the neck, a first time. Looser, gracefully fastened
thrice to these, a three-wreathed festoon, and pendants enough
(simple pear-shaped, multiple star-shaped, or clustering amor-
phous) encircle it, enwreath it, a second time. Loosest of all,
softly flowing round from behind, in priceless catenary, rush down
two broad threefold rows; seem to knot themselves, round a very
Queen of Diamonds, on the bosom ; then rush on, again separated,
as if there were length in plenty ; the very tassels of them were a
fortune for some men. And now lastly, two other inexpressible
1 Frontispiece of the ‘Affaire du Collier, Paris, 1785;’ wherefrom Georgel's
Editor has copied it. This ‘Affaire du Collier, Paris, 1785,” is not properly a
Book; but a bound Collection of such Law-Papers (Mémoires powr &c.) as were
printed and emitted by the various parties in that famed “Necklace Trial.”
These Law-Papers, bound into Two Volumes quarto; with Portraits, such as
the Printshops yielded them at the time ; likewise with patches of Ms., con-
taining Notes, Pasquinade-songs, and the like, of the most unspeakable cha-
racter occasionally, -constitute this ‘Affaire du Collier;' which the Paris
Dealers in Old Books can still procure there. It is one of the largest collec-
tions of Falsehoods that exists in print ; and, unfortunately, still, after all the
narrating and history there has been on the subject, forms our chief means of
getting at the truth of that Transaction. The First Volume contains some
Twenty-one Mémoires pour : not, of course, Historical statements of truth ;
but Culprits' and Lawyers' statements of what they wished to be believed ;
each party lying according to his ability to lie. To reach the truth, or even
any honest guess at the truth, the immensities of rubbish must be sifted, con-
trasted, rejected : what grain of historical evidence may lie at the bottom is
then attainable. Thus, as this Transaction of the Diamond Necklace has been
called the ‘Largest Lie of the Eighteenth Century,” so it comes to us borne,
not unfitly, on a whole illimitable dim Chaos of Lies
Nay, the Second Volume, entitled Swite de l'Affaire du Collier, is still
stranger. It relates to the Intrigue and Trial of one Bette d’Etienville, who,
represents himself as a poor lad that had been kidnapped, blindfolded, intro-
duced to beautiful Ladies, and engaged to get husbands for them ; as setting
out on this task, and gradually getting quite bewitched and bewildered;—most
indubitably, going on to bewitch and bewilder other people on all hands of
him : the whole in consequence of this “Necklace Trial,” and the noise it was
making ! Very curious. The Lawyers did verily busy themselves with this
affair of Bette's ; there are scarecrow Portraits given, that stood in the Print-
shops, and no man can know whether the Originals ever so much as existed.
It is like the Dream of a Dream. The human mind stands stupent ; ejaculates
the wish that such Gulf of Falsehood would close itself,-before general Deli-
rium supervene, and the Speech of Man become mere incredible, meaningless
jargon, like that of choughs and daws. Even from Bette, however, by assidu-
ous sifting, one gathers a particle of truth here and there.
10 MISCELLANIES.
threefold rows, also with their tassels, will, when the Necklace is
on and clasped, unite themselves behind into a doubly inexpressi-
ble sia fold row; and so stream down, together or asunder, over the
hind-neck,--we may fancy, like lambent Zodiacal or Aurora-Borealis
fire.
All these on a neck of snow slight-tinged with rose-bloom,
and within it royal Life: amidst the blaze of lustres; in Sylphish
movements, espiegleries, coquetteries, and minuet-mazes; with
every movement a flash of star-rainbow colours, bright almost as
the movements of the fair young soul it emblems | A glorious
ornament; fit only for the Sultana of the World. Indeed, only
attainable by such ; for it is valued at 1,800,000 livres; say in
round numbers, and sterling money, between eighty and ninety
thousand pounds.
CHAPTER III.
The Necklace cannot be sold.
Miscalculating Boehmer The Sultana of the Earth shall
never wear that Necklace of thine ; no neck, either royal or vassal,
shall ever be the lovelier for it. In the present distressed state of
our finances, with the American War raging round us, where
thinkest thou are eighty thousand pounds to be raised for such a
thing? In this hungry world, thou fool, these five hundred and
odd Diamonds, good only for looking at, are intrinsically worth
less to us than a string of as many dry Irish potatoes, on which
a famishing Sansculotte might fill his belly. Little knowest thou,
laughing Joaillier-Bijoutier, great in thy pride of place, in thy
pride of savoir faire, what the world has in store for thee. Thou
laughest there; by-and-by thou wilt laugh on the wrong side of
thy face mainly.
While the Necklace lay in stucco effigy, and the stones of it
were still “circulating in Commerce, Du Barry's was the neck it
was meant for. Unhappily, as all dogs, male and female, have but
their day, her day is done; and now (so busy has Death been) she
sits retired, on mere half-pay, without prospects, at Saint-Cyr. A
generous France will buy no more neck-ornaments for her —O
Heaven the Guillotine-axe is already forging (North, in Swedish
Dalecarlia, by sledge-hammers and fire; South too, by taxes and
tailles) that will sheer her neck in twain
But, indeed, what of Du Barry? A foul worm ; hatched by
royal heat, on foul composts, into a flaunting butterfly ; now dis-
winged, and again a wormſ Are there not Kings' Daughters and
THE DIAMOND NECRLACE. 11
Kings' Consorts; is not Decoration the first wish of a female heart,
—often also, if such heart is empty, the last 2 The Portuguese
Ambassador is here, and his rigorous Pombal is no longer Mi-
nister: there is an Infanta in Portugal, purposing by Heaven's
blessing to wed.—Singular ! the Portuguese Ambassador, though
without fear of Pombal, praises, but will not purchase.
Or why not our own loveliest Marie-Antoinette, once Dauphi-
ness only; now every inch a Queen : what neck in the whole Earth
would it beseem better? It is fit only for her.—Alas, Boehmer
King Louis has an eye for diamonds; but he too is without over-
plus of money: his high Queen herself answers queenlike, “We
have more need of Seventy-fours than of Necklaces.” Laudatur et
alget !—Not without a qualmish feeling, we apply next to the Queen
and King of the Two Sicilies." In vain, O Boehmer In crowned
heads there is no hope for thee. Not a crowned head of them can
spare the eighty thousand pounds. The age of Chivalry is gone,
and that of Bankruptcy is come. A dull, deep, presaging move-
ment rocks all thrones: Bankruptcy is beating down the gate, and
no Chancellor can longer barricade her out. She will enter; and
the shoreless fire-lava of DEMocracy is at her back Well may
Rings, a second time, “sit still with awful eye,’ and think of far
other things than Necklaces.
Thus for poor Boehmer are the mournfullest days and nights
appointed ; and this high-promising year (1780, as we laboriously
guess and gather) stands blacker than all others in his calendar.
In vain shall he, on his sleepless pillow, more and more despe-
rately revolve the problem; it is a problem of the insoluble sort,
a true “irreducible case of Cardan : " the Diamond Necklace will
not sell.
CHAPTER IV.
Affinities: the Two Fiaced-Ideas.
Nevertheless, a man’s little Work lies not isolated, stranded ; a
whole busy World, a whole native-element of mysterious never-
resting Force, environs it ; will catch it up; will carry it forward,
or else backward: always, infallibly, either as living growth, or at
worst as well-rotted manure, the Thing Done will come to use. Of.
ten, accordingly, for a man that had finished any little work, this
were the most interesting question: In such a boundless whirl of
a world, what hook will it be, and what hooks, that shall catch up
this little work of mine ; and whirl it also, through such a dance 2
A question, we need not say, which, in the simplest of cases, would
! See Mémoires de Campan, ii. 1-26.
I2 MISCELLANIES.
bring the whole Royal Society to a nonplus-Good Corsican Leti-
tial while thou nursest thy little Napoleon, and he answers thy
mother-smile with those deep eyes of his, a world-famous French
Revolution, with Federations of the Champ de Mars, and September
Massacres, and Bakers' Customers en queue, is getting ready : many
a Danton and Desmoulins; prim-visaged, Tartuffe-looking Robes-
pierre, as yet all schoolboys; and Marat weeping bitter rheum, as
he pounds horsedrugs, are preparing the fittest arena for him
Thus too, while poor Boehmer is busy with those Diamonds of
his, picking them “out of Commerce,’ and his craftsmen are grind-
ing and setting them; a certain ecclesiastical Coadjutor and Grand
Almoner, and prospective Commendator and Cardinal, is in Aus-
tria, hunting and giving suppers; for whom mainly it is that Boeh-
mer and his craftsmen so employ themselves. Strange enough,
once more | The foolish Jeweller at Paris, making foolish trin-
kets; the foolish Ambassador at Vienna, making blunders and de-
baucheries: these Two, all uncommunicating, wide asunder as the
Poles, are hourly forging for each other the wonderfullest hook-
and-eye ; which will hook them together, one day,+into artificial
Siamese-Twins, for the astonishment of mankind.
Prince Louis de Rohan is one of those select mortals born to
honours, as the sparks fly upwards; and, alas, also (as all men are)
to troubles no less. Of his genesis and descent much might be
said, by the curious in such matters; yet perhaps, if we weigh it
well, intrinsically little. He can, by diligence and faith, be traced
back some handbreadth or two, some century or two; but after that,
merges in the mere “blood-royal of Brittany;' long, long on this
side of the Northern Immigrations, he is not so much as to be
sought for;—and leaves the whole space onwards from that, into
the bosom of Eternity, a blank, marked only by one point, the Fall
of Man However, and what alone concerns us, his kindred, in
these quite recent times, have been much about the Most Chris-
tian Majesty; could there pick up what was going. In particular,
they have had a turn of some continuance for Cardinalship and
Commendatorship. Safest trades these, of the calm, do-nothing
sort : in the do-something line, in Generalship, or such like (wit-
mess poor Cousin Soubise, at Rosbach'), they might not fare so
well. In any case, the actual Prince Louis, Coadjutor at Stras-
burg, while his uncle the Cardinal-Archbishop has not yet de-
| Here is the Epigram they made against him on occasion of Rosbach,-in
that ‘Despotism tempered by Epigrams, which France was then said to be:
* Soubise dit, la lanterne à la main,
J’ai beau chercher, oil diable est mon Armée
Elle était la pourtant hier matin:
Me l'a-t-on prise, ou l'aurais-je égarée?—
THE DIAMOND NECRLACE. 13
ceased, and left him his dignities, but only fallen sick, already
takes his place on one grandest occasion : he, thrice-happy Coad-
jutor, receives the fair, young, trembling Dauphiness, Marie-An-
toinette, on her first entrance into France ; and can there, as
Ceremonial Fugleman, with fit bearing and semblance (being a tall
man, of six-and-thirty), do the needful. Of his other performances
up to this date, a refined History had rather say nothing.
In fact, if the tolerating mind will meditate it with any sym-
pathy, what could poor Rohan perform 2 Performing needs light,
needs strength, and a firm clear footing; all of which had been
denied him. Nourished, from birth, with the choicest physical
spoon-meat, indeed; yet also, with no better spiritual Doctrine
and Evangel of Life than a French Court of Louis the Well-beloved
could yield; gifted moreover, and this too was but a new per-
plexity for him, with shrewdness enough to see through much,
with vigour enough to despise much ; unhappily, not with vigour
enough to spurn it from him, and be forever enfranchised of
it, he awakes, at man's stature, with man's wild desires, in a
World of the merest incoherent Lies and Delirium; himself a
nameless Mass of delirious Incoherences, covered over at most,
and held-in a little, by conventional Politesse, and a Cloak of pro-
spective Cardinal's Plush. Are not intrigues, might Rohan say,
the industry of this our Universe; nay is not the Universe itself,
at bottom, properly.an intrigue 2 A Most Christian Majesty, in
the Parc-aua-cerfs ; he, thou seest, is the god of this lower world;
in the fight of Life, our war-banner and celestial En-touto-nika is a
Strumpet's Petticoat: these are thy gods, O France —What, in
such singular circumstances, could poor Rohan's creed and world-
theory be, that he should ‘perform’ thereby ? Atheism 2 Alas,
no ; not even Atheism : only Machiavelism ; and the indestructi-
ble faith that “ginger is hot in the mouth.' Get ever new and
better ginger, therefore ; chew it ever the more diligently : 'tis all
thou hast to look to, and that only for a day.
Ginger enough, poor Louis de Rohan: too much of ginger!
Whatsoever of it, for the five senses, money, or money's worth, or
backstairs diplomacy, can buy; nay for the sixth sense too, the far
spicier ginger, Antecedence of thy fellow-creatures,-merited, at
least, by infinitely finer housing than theirs. Coadjutor of Stras-
burg, Archbishop of Strasburg, Grand Almoner of France, Com-
Que vois-je, 6 ciel ! que mon âme est ravie :
Prodige heureux la voilà, la voilà 1–
Ah, ventrebleu ! qu’est-ce donc que cela :
Je me trompais, c'est l'Armée Ennemie l'
LACRETELLE, ii. 206.
14 MISCELLANIES,
mander of the Order of the Holy Ghost, Cardinal, Commendator of
St. Wast d'Arras (one of the fattest benefices here below): all these
shall be housings for Monseigneur: to all these shall his Jesuit
Nursing-mother, our vulpine Abbé Georgel, through fair court-wea-
ther and through foul, triumphantly bear him; and wrap him with
them, fat, somnolent Nurseling as he is.-By the way, a most assi-
duous, ever-wakeful Abbé is this Georgel; and wholly Monseig-
neur's. He has scouts dim-flying, far out, in the great deep of the
world's business; has spider-threads that overnet the whole world;
himself sits in the centre, ready to run. In vain shall King and
Queen combine against Monseigneur: “I was at M. de Maurepas'
pillow before six,”—persuasively wagging my sleek coif, and the
sleek reynard-head under it; I managed it all for him. Here too,
on occasion of Reynard Georgel, we could not but reflect what a
singular species of creature your Jesuit must have been. Outwardly,
you would say, a man; the smooth semblance of a man: inwardly,
to the centre, filled with stone ! Yet in all breathing things, even
in stone Jesuits, are inscrutable sympathies: how else does a Rey-
Inard Abbé so loyally give himself, soul and body, to a somnolent
Monseigneur;-how else does the poor Tit, to the neglect of its
own eggs and interests, nurse up a huge lumbering Cuckoo; and
think its pains all paid, if the sootbrown Stupidity will merely grow
bigger and bigger!—Enough, by Jesuitic or other means, Prince
Louis de Rohan shall be passively kneaded and baked into Com-
mendator of St. Wast and much else; and truly such a Commen-
dator as hardly, since King Thierri, first of the Fainéans, founded
that Establishment, has played his part there.
Such, however, have Nature and Art combined together to make
Prince Louis. A figure thrice-clothed with honours; with plush,
and civic and ecclesiastic garniture of all kinds; but in itself little
other than an amorphous congeries of contradictions, somnolence
and violence, foul passions and foul habits. It is by his plush cloaks
and wrappages mainly, as above hinted, that such a figure sticks
together; what we call “coheres,’ in any measure; were it not for
these, he would flow out boundlessly on all sides. Conceive him
farther, with a kind of radical vigour and fire, for he can see clearly
at times, and speak fiercely; yet left in this way to stagnate and
ferment, and lie overlaid with such floods of fat material: have we
not a true image of the shamefullest Mud-volcano, gurgling and
sluttishly simmering, amid continual steamy indistinctness, ex-
cept, as was hinted, in wind-gusts; with occasional terrifico-absurd
mud-explosions!
This, garnish it and fringe it never so handsomely, is, alas, the
intrinsic character of Prince Louis. A shameful spectacle: such,
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE, lö
however, as the world has beheld many times; as it were to be
wished, but is not yet to be hoped, the world might behold no more.
Nay, are not all possible delirious incoherences, outward and in-
ward, summed up, for poor Rohan, in this one incrediblest incoher-
ence, that he, Prince Louis de Rohan, is named Priest, Cardinal of
the Church? A debauched, merely libidinous mortal, lying there
quite helpless, dissolute (as we well say); whom to see Church
Cardinal, symbolical Hinge or main Corner of the Invisible Holy in
this World, an Inhabitant of Saturn might split with laughing, -
if he did not rather swoon with pity and horror!
Prince Louis, as ceremonial fugleman at Strasburg, might have
hoped to make some way with the fair young Dauphiness; but
seems not to have made any. Perhaps, in those great days, so try-
ing for a fifteen-years Bride and Dauphiness, the fair Antoinette
was too preoccupied : perhaps, in the very face and looks of Pro-
spective-Cardinal Prince Louis, her fair young soul read, all uncon-
sciously, an incoherent Roué-ism, bottomless Mud-volcanoism ;
from which she by instinct rather recoiled.
However, as above hinted, he is now gone, in these years, on
Embassy to Vienna : with ‘four-and-twenty pages' (if our remem-
brance of Abbé Georgel serve) ‘of noble birth,’ all in scarlet
breeches; and such a retinue and parade as drowns even his fat
revenue in perennial debt. Above all things, his Jesuit Familiar
is with him. For so everywhere they must manage: Eminence
Rohan is the cloak, Jesuit Georgel the man or automaton within
it. Rohan, indeed, sees Poland a-partitioning; or rather Georgel,
with his “masked Austrian' traitor ‘on the ramparts, sees it for
him : but what can he do? He exhibits his four-and-twenty scarlet
pages, who, we find, “smuggle' to quite unconscionable lengths;
rides through a Catholic procession, Prospective-Cardinal though
he be, because it is too long and keeps him from an appointment;
hunts, gallants; gives suppers, Sardanapalus-wise, the finest ever
seen in Vienna. Abbé Georgel, as we fancy it was, writes a Des-
patch in his name “every fortnight;"—mentions in one of these,
that “Maria. Theresa stands, indeed, with the handkerchief in one
‘hand, weeping for the woes of Poland; but with the sword in the
“other hand, ready to cut Poland in sections, and take her share.”
* Mémoires de l’Abbé Georgel, ii. 1-220. Abbé Georgel, who has given, in
the place referred to, a long solemn Narrative of the Necklace Business, passes
for the grand authority on it: but neither will he, strictly taken up, abide scru-
tiny. He is vague as may be ; writing in what is called the 'soaped-pig" fashion:
yet sometimes you do catch him, and hold him. There are hardly above three
dates in his whole Narrative. He mistakes several times; perhaps, once or
twice, wilfully misrepresents, a little. The main incident of the business is mis-
16 MISCELLANIES.
Untimely joke; which proved to Prince Louis the root of unspeak-
able chagrins! For Minister D'Aiguillon (much against his duty)
communicates the Letter to King Louis; Louis to Du Barry, to
season her souper, and laughs over it: the thing becomes a court-
joke; the filially-pious Dauphiness hears it, and remembers it. Ac-
counts go, moreover, that Rohan spake censuringly of the Dauphi-
ness to her Mother: this probably is but hearsay and false; the
devout Maria Theresa disliked him, and even despised him, and
vigorously laboured for his recall.
Thus, in rosy sleep and somnambulism, or awake only to quaff
the full wine-cup of the Scarlet Woman his Mother, and again sleep
and somnambulate, does the Prospective-Cardinal and Commenda-
tor pass his days. Unhappy man! This is not a world which was
made in sleep; which it is safe to sleep and somnambulate in. In
that ‘loud-roaring Loom of Time' (where above nine hundred mil-
lions of hungry Men, for one item, restlessly weave and work), so
many threads fly humming from their “eternal spindles;’ and swift
invisible shuttles, far darting, to the Ends of the World,—complex
enough ! At this hour, a miserable Boehmer in Paris, whom thou
wottest not of, is spinning, of diamonds and gold, a paltry thrum
that will go nigh to strangle the life out of thee.
Meanwhile Louis the Well-beloved has left, forever, his Parc-
aua-cerfs ; and, amid the scarce-suppressed hootings of the world,
taken up his last lodging at St. Denis. Feeling that it was all
over (for the small-pox has the victory, and even Du Barry is off),
he, as the Abbé Georgel records, “made the amende honorable to
God’ (these are his Reverence's own words); had a true repent-
ance of three days' standing; and so, continues the Abbé, ‘fell
asleep in the Lord.’ Asleep in the Lord, Monsieur l'Abbé ! If
such a mass of Laziness and Lust fell asleep in the Lord, who,
fanciest thou, is it that falls asleep–elsewhere? Enough that he
did fall asleep; that thick-wrapt in the Blanket of the Night, under
what keeping we ask not, he never through endless Time can, for
his own or our sins, insult the face of the Sun any more;—and so
now we go onward, if not to less degrees of beastliness, yet at least
and worst, to cheering varieties of it.
Louis XVI, therefore reigns (and, under the Sieur Gamain,
makes locks); his fair Dauphiness has become a Queen. Emi-
nence Rohan is home from Vienna; to condole and congratulate.
He bears a Letter from Maria. Theresa; hopes the Queen will not
dated by him, almost a twelvemonth. It is to be remembered that the poor
Abbé wrote in exile; and with cause enough for prepossessions and hostilities.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE, 17
forget old Ceremonial Fuglemen, and friends of the Dauphiness.
Heaven and Earth ! The Dauphiness Queen will not see him;
orders the Letter to be sent her. The King himself signifies briefly
that he “will be asked for when wanted ''
Alas! at Court, our motion is the delicatest, unsurest. We
go spinning, as it were, on teetotums, by the edges of bottomless
deeps. Rest is fall; so is one false whirl. A moment ago, Emi-
nence Rohan seemed waltzing with the best: but, behold, his tee-
totum has carried him over; there is an inversion of the centre of
gravity; and so now, heels uppermost, velocity increasing as the
time, space as the square of the time, –he rushes.
On a man of poor Rohan's somnolence and violence, the sym-
pathising mind can estimate what the effect was. Consternation,
stupefaction, the total jumble of blood, brains and nervous spirits;
in ear and heart, only universal hubbub, and louder and louder
singing of the agitated air. A fall comparable to that of Satan
Men have, indeed, been driven from Court; and borne it, accord-
ing to ability. Choiseul, in these very years, retired Parthianlike,
with a smile or scowl; and drew half the Court-host along with
him. Our Wolsey, though once an Ego et Rea: meus, could jour-
ney, it is said, without strait-waistcoat, to his monastery; and
there telling beads, look forward to a still longer journey. The
melodious, too soft-strung Racine, when his King turned his back
on him, emitted one meek wail, and submissively— died. But
the case of Coadjutor de Rohan differed from all these. No loyalty
was in him, that he should die; no self-help, that he should live ;
no faith, that he should tell beads. His is a mud-volcanic charac-
ter; incoherent, mad, from the very foundation of it. Think too,
that his Courtiership (for how could any nobleness enter there?)
was properly a gambling speculation: the loss of his trump Queen
of Hearts can bring nothing but flat unredeemed despair. No
other game has he, in this world,—or in the next. And then
the exasperating Why? The How came it 3 For that Rohanic, or
Georgelic, sprightliness of the ‘handkerchief in one hand, and
sword in the other,' if indeed that could have caused it all, has
quite escaped him. In the name of Friar Bacon's Head, what was
it? Imagination, with Desperation to drive her, may fly to all
points of Space;—and returns with wearied wings, and no tidings.
Behold me here: this, which is the first grand certainty for man in
general, is the first and last and only one for poor Rohan. And
then his Here ! Alas, looking upwards, he can eye, from his burn-
ing marl, the azure realms, once his ; and Cousin Countess de
Marsan, and so many Richelieus, Polignacs, and other happy an-
gels, male and female, all blissfully gyrating there; while he—!
WOL. IV, C.
18 MISCELLANIES.
Nevertheless hope, in the human breast, though not in the dia:
bolic, springs eternal. The outcast Rohan bends all his thoughts,
faculties, prayers, purposes, to one object; one object he will
attain, or go to Bedlam. How many ways he tries; what days
and nights of conjecture, consultation; what written unpublished
reams of correspondence, protestation, backstairs diplomacy of
every rubric How many suppers has he eaten; how many
given, in vain' It is his morning song, and his evening prayer.
From innumerable falls he rises; only to fall again. Behold him
even, with his red stockings, at dusk, in the Garden of Trianon :
he has bribed the Concierge ; will see her Majesty in spite of
Etiquette and Fate; peradventure, pitying his long sad King's-
evil, she will touch him and heal him. In vain,_says the Female
Historian, Campan." The Chariot of Majesty shoots rapidly by,
with high-plumed heads in it; Eminence is known by his red
stockings, but not looked at, only laughed at, and left standing
like a Pillar of Salt.
Thus through ten long years, of new resolve and new despond-
ency, of flying from Saverne to Paris, and from Paris to Saverne,
has it lasted; hope deferred making the heart sick. Reynard
Georgel and Cousin de Marsan, by eloquence, by influence, and
being “at M. de Maurepas' pillow before six,’ have secured the
Archbishopric, the Grand-Almonership ; the Cardinalship (by the
medium of Poland); and, lastly, to tinker many rents, and appease
the Jews, that fattest Commendatorship, founded by King Thierri
the Do-nothing—perhaps with a view to such cases. All good
languidly croaks Rohan; yet all not the one thing needful; alas,
the Queen's eyes do not yet shine on me.
Abbé Georgel admits, in his own polite diplomatic way, that
the Mud volcano was much agitated by these trials; and in time
quite changed. Monseigneur deviated into cabalistic courses,
after elixirs, philtres, and the philosopher's stone; that is, the
volcanic steam grew thicker and heavier: at last by Cagliostro's
magic (for Cagliostro and the Cardinal by elective affinity must
meet), it sank into the opacity of perfect London fog ' So too, if
Monseigneur grew choleric ; wrapped himself up in reserve, spoke
roughly to his domestics and dependents, were not the terrifico-
Madame Campan, in her Narrative, and, indeed, in her Memoirs gene.
rally, does not seem to intend falsehood : this, in the Business of the Necklace,
is saying a great deal. She rather, perhaps, intends the producing of an im-
pression; which may have appeared to herself to be the right one. But, at all
events, she has, here or elsewhere, no notion of historical rigour; she gives
hardly any date, or the like ; will tell the same thing, in different places, dif:
ferent ways, &c. There is a tradition that Louis XVIII. revised her Mémoires
before publication. She requires to be read with scepticism everywhere; but
yields something in that way. ' . - - .
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 19
absurd mud-explosions becoming more frequent 2 Alas, what
wonder ? Some nine-and-forty winters have now fled over his
Eminence (for it is 1783), and his beard falls white to the shaver;
but age for him brings no “benefit of experience.’ He is possessed
by a fixed-idea!
Foolish Eminence 1 is the Earth grown all barren and of a
snuff colour, because one pair of eyes in it look on thee askance?
Surely thou hast thy Body there yet; and what of soul might
from the first reside in it. Nay, a warm, Snug Body, with not
only five senses (sound still, in spite of much tear and wear),
but most eminent clothing, besides;–clothed with authority over
much, with red Cardinal's cloak, red Cardinal's hat; with Com-
mendatorship, Grand-Almonership, so kind have thy Fripiers
been ; with dignities and dominions too tedious to name. The
stars rise nightly, with tidings (for thee too, if thou wilt listen)
from the infinite Blue; Sun and Moon bring vicissitudes of
season; dressing green, with flower-borderings, and cloth of gold,
this ancient ever-young Earth of ours, and filling her breasts with
all-nourishing mother's milk. Wilt thou work? The whole En-
cyclopedia (not Diderot's only, but the Almighty's) is there for
thee to spread thy broad faculty upon. Or, if thou have no
faculty, no Sense, hast thou not, as already suggested, Senses, to
the number of five 2 What victuals thou wishest, command; with
what wine savoureth thee, be filled. Already thou art a false las-
civious Priest; with revenues of, say, a quarter of a million Sterl-
ing; and no mind to mend. Eat, foolish Eminence; eat with
voracity,+leaving the shot till afterwards ! In all this the eyes of
Marie Antoinette can neither help thee nor hinder.
And yet what is the Cardinal, dissolute mud-volcano though
he be, more foolish herein, than all Sons of Adam 2 Give the
wisest of us once a “fixed-idea,'—which, though a temporary mad-
ness, who has not had 2—and see where his wisdom is The
Chamois-hunter serves his doomed seven years in the Quicksilver
Mines; returns salivated to the marrow of the backbone; and
next morning—goes forth to hunt again. Behold Cardalion King
of Urinals; with a woful ballad to his mistress' eyebrow ! He
blows out, Werter-wise, his foolish existence, because she will not
have it to keep ;—heeds not that there are some five hundred
millions of other mistresses in this noble Planet; most likely
much such as she. O foolish men'ſ They sell their Inheritance
(as their Mother did hers), though it is Paradise, for a crotchet:
will they not, in every age, dare not only grape-shot and gallows:
ropes, but Hell-fire itself, for better sauce to their victuals 2 My
friends, beware of fixed-ideas. - . . .
20 MISCELLANIES.
Here, accordingly, is poor Boehmer with one in his head too !
He has been hawking his “irreducible case of Cardan,' that Neck-
lace of his, these three long years, through all Palaces and Am-
bassadors' Hotels, over the old “nine Kingdoms, or more of them
than there now are: searching, sifting Earth, Sea and Air, for a
customer. To take his Necklace in pieces; and so, losing only
his manual labour and expected glory, dissolve his fixed-idea, and
fixed diamonds, into current ones: this were simply casting out
the Devil—from himself; a miracle, and perhaps more For he
too has a Devil, or Devils: one mad object that he strives at ;
that he too will attain, or go to Bedlam. Creditors, snarling,
hound him on from without; mocked Hopes, lost Labours, bear-
bait him from within : to these torments his fixed-idea keeps him
chained. In six-and-thirty weary revolutions of the Moon, was it
wonderful the man's brain had got dried a little 2
Behold, one day, being Court-Jeweller, he too bursts, almost
as Rohan had done, into the Queen's retirement, or apartment;
flings himself (as Campan again has recorded) at her Majesty's
feet; and there, with clasped uplifted hands, in passionate nasal-
gutturals, with streaming tears and loud sobs, entreats her to do
one of two things: Either to buy his Necklace; or else graciously
to vouchsafe him her royal permission to drown himself in the
River Seine. Her Majesty, pitying the distracted bewildered
state of the man, calmly points out the plain third course: Dé-
pécez votre Collier, Take your Necklace in pieces;–adding withal,
in a tone of queenly rebuke, that if he would drown himself, he at
all times could, without her furtherance.
Ah, had he drowned himself, with the Necklace in his pocket;
and Cardinal Commendator at his skirts | Kings, above all, beau-
tiful Queens, as far-radiant Symbols on the pinnacles of the world,
are so exposed to madmen. Should these two fixed-ideas that
beset this beautifullest Queen, and almost burst through her Pa-
lace-walls, one day unite, and this not to jump into the River Seine:
—what maddest result may be looked for 1
CHAPTER W.
The Artist.
If the reader has hitherto, in our too figurative language, seen
only the figurative hook and the figurative eye, which Boehmer
and Rohan, far apart, were respectively fashioning for each other,
he shall now see the cunning Milliner (an actual, unmetaphorical
Milliner) by whom these two individuals, with their two imple-
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 21
ments, are brought in contact, and hooked together into stupen-
dous artifieial Siamese-Twins;—after which the whole nodus and
solution will naturally combine and unfold itself.
Jeanne de Saint-Remi, by courtesy or otherwise, Countess
styled also of Valois, and even of France, has now, in this year of
Grace 1783, known the world for some seven-and-twenty summers;
and had crooks in her lot. She boasts herself descended, by what
is called natural generation, from the Blood-Royal of France:
Henri Second, before that fatal tourney-lance entered his right
eye and ended him, appears to have had, successively or simul-
taneously, four—unmentionable women: and so, in vice of the third
of these, came a certain Henri de Saint-Remi into this world; and,
as High and Puissant Lord, ate his victuals and spent his days,
on an allotted domain of Fontette, near Bar-sur-Aube, in Cham-
pagne. Of High and Puissant Lords, at this Fontette, six other
generations followed; and thus ultimately, in a space of some two
centuries, succeeded in realising this brisk little Jeanne de Saint-
Bemi, here in question. But, ah, what a falling-off! The Royal
Family of France has wellnigh forgotten its left-hand collaterals:
the last High and Puissant Lord (much clipt by his predecessors),
falling into drink, and left by a scandalous world to drink his
pitcher dry, had to alienate by degrees his whole worldly Posses-
sions, down almost to the indispensable, or inexpressibles; and
die at last in the Paris Hôtel-Dieu ; glad that it was not on the
street. So that he has, indeed, given a sort of bastard royal life
to little Jeanne, and her little brother; but not the smallest
earthly provender to keep it in. The mother, in her extremity,
forms the wonderfullest connexions; and little Jeanne, and her
little brother, go out into the highways to beg."
A charitable Countess Boulainvilliers, struck with the little
bright-eyed tatterdemalion from the carriage-window, picks her
up; has her scoured, clothed; and rears her, in her fluctuating
miscellaneous way, to be, about the age of twenty, a nondescript
of Mantuamaker, Soubrette, Court-beggar, Fine-lady, Abigail, and
Scion-of-Royalty. Sad combination of trades | The Court, after
infinite soliciting, puts one off with a hungry dole of little more
than thirty pounds a year. Nay, the audacious Count Boulain-
villiers dares, with what purposes he knows best, to offer some
suspicious presents ſ” Whereupon his good Countess, especially
as Mantuamaking languishes, thinks it could not but be fit to go
| Vie de Jeanne Comtesse de Lamotte (by Herself), vol. i.
* He was of Hebrew descent : grandson of the renowned Jew Bernard,
whom Louis XV., and even Louis XIV., used to “walk with in the Royal Gar-
den,” when they wanted him to lend them money. See Souvenirs du Duc de
Ilevis; Mémoires de Duclos, &c.
22 g MISOELLANIES,
down to Bar-sur-Aube; and there see whether no fractions of that
alienated Fontette Property, held perhaps on insecure tenure,
may, by terror or cunning, be recoverable. Burning her paper
patterns, pocketing her pension till more come, Mademoiselle
Jeanne sallies out thither, in her twenty-third year.
Nourished in this singular way, alternating between saloon
and kitchen-table, with the loftiest of pretensions, meanest of pos-
sessions, our poor High and Puissant Mantuamaker has realised
for herself a ‘face not beautiful, yet with a certain piquancy;'
dark hair, blue eyes; and a character, which the present Writer,
a determined student of human nature, declares to be undecipher-
able. Let the Psychologists try it! Jeanne de Saint-Remi de
Valois de France actually lived, and worked, and was : she has
even published, at various times, three considerable Volumes of
Autobiography, with loose Leaves (in Courts of Justice) of un-
known number; wherein he that runs may read, but not under-
stand. Strange Volumes more like the screeching of distracted
night-birds (suddenly disturbed by the torch of Police-Fowlers),
than the articulate utterance of a rational unfeathered biped.
'Cheerfully admitting these statements to be all lies; we ask, How
any mortal could, or should, so lie?
The Psychologists, however, commit one sore mistake; that of
searching, in every character named human, for something like a
conscience. Being mere contemplative recluses, for most part,
and feeling that Morality is the heart of Life, they judge that with
all the world it is so. Nevertheless, as practical men are aware,
Life can go on in excellent vigour, without crotchet of that kind.
What is the essence of Life? Wolition ? Go deeper down, you
find a much more universal root and characteristic: Digestion.
While Digestion lasts, Life cannot, in philosophical language,
be said to be extinct: and Digestion will give rise to Wolitions
enough; at any rate, to Desires and attempts, which may pass
for such. He who looks neither before nor after, any farther than
the Larder and Stateroom, which latter is properly the finest com-
* Four Mémoires pour by her, in this Affaire du Collier ; like ‘Lawyers'
tongues turned inside out !” Afterwards One Volume, Mémoires Justificatifs
de la Comtesse de, &c. (London, 1788); with Appendix of ‘Documents' so-called.
This has also been translated into a kind of English. Then Two Volumes, as
quoted above : Vie de Jeanne de, &c.; printed in London,—by way of extort-
ing money from Paris. This latter Lying Autobiography of Lamotte was
bought-up by French persons in authority. It was the burning of this Editio
;Princeps in the Sèvres Potteries, on the 30th of May 1792, which raised such a
smoke, that the Legislative Assembly took alarm; and had an investigation
about it, and considerable examining of Potters, &c., till the truth came out.
Copies of the Book were speedily reprinted after the Tenth of August. It is in

English too; and, except in the Necklace part, is not so entirely distracted as
ºthe former.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 23
partment of the Larder, will need no World-theory, Creed as it is
called, or Scheme of Duties: lightly leaving the world to wag as
it likes with any theory or none, his grand object is a theory and
practice of ways and means. Not goodness or badness is the type
of him; only shiftiness or shiftlessness.
And now, disburdened of this obstruction, let the Psychologists
consider it under a bolder view. Consider the brisk Jeanne de
Saint-Remi de Saint-Shifty as a Spark of vehement Life, not de-
veloped into Will of any kind, yet fully into Desires of all kinds,
and cast into such a Life-element as we have seen. Vanity and
Hunger; a Princess of the Blood, yet whose father had sold his
inexpressibles; uncertain whether fosterdaughter of a fond Coun-
tess, with hopes sky-high, or supernumerary Soubrette; with not
enough of mantuamaking: in a word, Gigmanity disgigged; one of
the saddest, pitiable, unpitied predicaments of man She is of
that light unreflecting class, of that light unreflecting sex: varium.
semper et mutabile. And then her Fine-ladyism, though a purseless
one : capricious, coquettish, and with all the finer sensibilities of
the heart ; now in the rackets, now in the sullens; vivid in con-
tradictory resolves; laughing, weeping without reason, though
these acts are said to be signs of reason. Consider too, how she
has had to work her way, all along, by flattery and cajolery;
wheedling, eaves-dropping, namby-pambying: how she needs
wages, and knows no other productive trades. Thought can
hardly be said to exist in her: only Perception and Device. With
an understanding lynx-eyed for the surface of things, but which
pierces beyond the surface of nothing; every individual thing (for
she has never seized the heart of it) turns up a new face to her
every new day, and seems a thing changed, a different thing.
Thus sits, or rather vehemently bobs and hovers her vehement
mind, in the middle of a boundless many-dancing whirlpool of
gilt-shreds, paper-clippings, and windfalls, to which the revolv-
ing chaos of my Uncle Toby's Smokejack was solidity and regu-
larity. Reader thou for thy sins must have met with such fair
Irrationals; fascinating, with their lively eyes, with their quick
snappish fancies; distinguished in the higher circles, in Fashion,
even in Literature: they hum and buzz there, on graceful film-
wings;–searching, nevertheless, with the wonderfullest skill, for
honey; ‘untamable as flies 1’
Wonderfullest skill for honey, we say; and, pray, mark that:
as regards this Countess de Saint-Shifty. Her instinct-of-genius
is prodigious; her appetite fierce. In any foraging speculation of
the private kind, she, unthinking as you call her, will be worth a
hundred thinkers. And so of such untamable flies the untam-
24 MISCELLANIES,
ablest, Mademoiselle Jeanne, is now buzzing down, in the Bar-
sur-Aube Diligence; to inspect the honeyjars of Fontette; and
See and smell whether there be any flaws in them.
Alas, at Fontette, we can, with sensibility, behold straw-roofs
we were nursed under; farmers courteously offer cooked milk,
and other country messes: but no soul will part with his Landed
Property, for which, though cheap, he declares hard money was
paid. The honeyjars are all close, then 2–However, a certain
Monsieur de Lamotte, a tall Gendarme, home on furlough from
Lunéville, is now at Bar; pays us attentions; becomes quite par-
ticular in his attentions,—for we have a face “with a certain pi-
quancy, the liveliest glib-snappish tongue, the liveliest kittenish
manner (not yet hardened into cat-hood), with thirty pounds a-
year, and prospects. M. de Lamotte, indeed, is as yet only a pri-
vate sentinel; but then a private sentinel in the Gendarmes: and
did not his father die fighting “at the head of his company,’ at
Minden 2 Why not in virtue of our own Countesship dub him
too Count; by left-hand collateralism, get him advanced 2–Ei-
nished before the furlough is done! The untamablest of flies has
again buzzed off; in wedlock with M. de Lamotte ; if not to get
honey, yet to escape spiders; and so lies in garrison at Lunéville,
amid coquetries and hysterics, in Gigmanity disgigged,—disconso-
late enough.
At the end of four long years (too long), M. de Lamotte, or call
him now Count de Lamotte, sees good to lay down his fighting-
gear (unhappily still only the musket), and become what is by
certain moderns called “a Civilian:’ not a Civil-Law Doctor;
merely a Citizen, one who does not live by being killed. Alas !
cold eclipse has all along hung over the Lamotte household.
Countess Boulainvilliers, it is true, writes in the most feeling
manner; but then the Royal Finances are so deranged Without
personal pressing solicitation, on the spot, no Court-solicitor, were
his Pension the meagrest, can hope to better it. At Lunéville the
sun, indeed, shines; and there is a kind of Life; but only an Un-
Parisian, half or quarter Life; the very tradesmen grow clamor-
ous, and no cunningly devised fable, ready-money alone will
appease them. Commandant Marquis d’Autichamp' agrees with
Madame Boulainvilliers that a journey to Paris were the project;
whither, also, he himself is just going. Perfidious Commandant
Marquis His plan is seen through : he dares to presume to
make love to a Scion-of-Royalty; or to hint that he could dare to
presume to do it! Whereupon, indignant Count de Lamotte, as
1 He is the same Marquis d'Autichamp who was to “relieve Lyons,” and
raise the Siege of Lyons, in Autumn 1793, but could not do it.
THE DIAMOND NECECLACE. 25
we said, throws up his commission, and down his fire-arms, with-
out further delay. The King loses a tall private sentinel; the
World has a new blackleg : and Monsieur and Madame de Lamotte
take places in the Diligence for Strasburg.
Good Fostermother Boulainvilliers, however, is no longer at
Strasburg: she is forward at the Archiepiscopal Palace in Saverne;
on a visit there, to his Eminence Cardinal Commendator Grand-
Almoner Archbishop Prince Louis de Rohan . Thus, then, has
Destiny at last brought it about. Thus, after long wanderings, on
paths so far separate, has the time come, in this late year 1783,
when, of all the nine hundred millions of the Earth's denizens,
these preappointed Two behold each other
The foolish Cardinal, since no sublunary means, not even brib-
ing of the Trianon Concierge, will serve, has taken to the super-
lunary: he is here, with his fixed-idea and volcanic vaporosity
darkening, under Cagliostro's management, into thicker and thicker
opaque, of the Black-Art itself. To the glance of hungry genius,
Cardinal and Cagliostro could not but have meaning. A flush of
astonishment, a sigh over boundless wealth (for the mountains of
debt lie invisible) in the hands of boundless Stupidity; some
vague looming of indefinite hope : all this one can well fancy.
But, alas, what, to a high plush Cardinal, is a now insolvent Scion-
of Royalty,+though with a face of some piquancy? The good
Fostermother's visit, in any case, can last but three days ; then,
amid old nambypambyings, with effusions of the nobler sensibili-
ties and tears of pity at least for oneself, Countess de Lamotte,
and husband, must off with her to Paris, and new possibilities at
Court. Only when the sky again darkens, can this vague looming
from Saverne look out, by fits, as a cheering weather-sign.
CHAPTER WI.
Will the Two Fiaced-ideas unite
However, the sky, according to custom, is not long in darken-
ing again. The King's finances, we repeat, are in so distracted a
state | No D'Ormesson, no Joly de Fleury, wearied with milking
the already dry, will increase that scandalous Thirty Pounds of a
Scion-of-Royalty by a single doit. Calonne himself, who has a
willing ear and encouraging word for all mortals whatsoever, only
with difficulty, and by aid of Madame of France," raises it to some
still miserable Sixty-five. Worst of all, the good Fostermother
Boulainvilliers, in few months, suddenly dies: the wretched wi-
* See Campan.
36. MISCELLANIES.
dower, sitting there, with his white handkerchief, to receive con-
dolences, with closed shutters, mortuary tapestries, and sepulchral
cressets burning (which, however, the instant the condolences are
gone, he blows out, to save oil), has the audacity again, amid cro-
codile tears, to—drop hints' Nay more, he, wretched man in all
senses, abridges the Lamotte table; will besiege virtue both in
the positive and negative way. The Lamottes, wintry as the world
looks, cannot be gone too soon.
As to Lamotte the husband, he, for shelter against much, de-
cisively dives down to the ‘subterranean shades of Rascaldom ;’
gambles, swindles; can hope to live, miscellaneously, if not by
the Grace of God, yet by the Oversight of the Devil-for a time.
Lamotte the wife also makes her packages: and waving the unse-
ductive Count Boulainvilliers Save-all a disdainful farewell, re-
moves to the Belle Image in Versailles; there within wind of Court,
in attic apartments, on poor watergruel board, resolves to await.
what can betide. So much, in few months of this fateful year
1783, has come and gone.
Poor Jeanne de Saint-Remi de Lamotte Valois, Ex-Mantua-
maker, Scion-of-Royalty | What eye, looking into those bare attic
apartments and water-gruel platters of the Belle Image, but must,
in spite of itself, grow dim with almost a kind of tear for thee!
There thou art, with thy quick lively glances, face of a certain
piquancy, thy gossamer untamable character, snappish sallies, glib
all-managing tongue; thy whole incarnated, garmented and so
sharply appetent ‘spark of Life;’ cast down alive into this World,
without vote of thine (for the Elective Franchises have not yet
got that length); and wouldst so fain live there. Paying scot-and-
lot; providing, or fresh-scouring silk court-dresses; “always keep-
ing a gig l’ Thou must hawk and shark to and fro, from anteroom
to anteroom; become a kind of terror to all men in place, and
women that influence such; dance not light Ionic measures, but
attendance merely ; have weepings, thanksgiving effusions, aulic,
almost forensic, eloquence: perhaps eke out thy thin livelihood
by some coquetries, in the small way;-and so, most poverty-
stricken, cold-blighted, yet with young keen blood struggling
against it, spin forward thy unequal feeble thread, which the
Atropos-scissors will soon clip !
Surely now, if ever, were that vague looming from Saverne
welcome, as a weather-sign. How doubly welcome is his plush
Bminence's personal arrival;-for with the earliest spring he has
come in person, as he periodically does; vaporific, driven by his
fixed-idea.
| Vie de Jeanne de Lamotte, dºc, čcrite par elle-même, vol. i.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 27
Genius, of the mechanical-practical kind, what is it but a
bringing together of two Forces that fit each other, that will give
birth to a third 2 Ever, from Tubalcain's time, Iron lay ready
hammered; Water, also, was boiling and bursting: nevertheless,
for want of a genius, there was as yet no Steam-engine. In his
Eminence Prince Louis, in that huge, restless, incoherent Being
of his, depend on it, brave Countess, there are Forces deep, mani-
fold; nay, a fixed-idea concentrates the whole huge Incoherence
as it were into one Force: cannot the eye of genius discover its
fellow Ż
Communing much with the Court valetaille, our brave Countess
has more than once heard talk of Boehmer, of his Necklace, and
threatened death by water; in the course of gossiping and tattling,
this topic from time to time emerges; is commented upon with
empty laughter, as if there lay no farther meaning in it. To the
common eye there is indeed none : but to the eye of genius 2 In
some moment of inspiration, the question rises on our brave La-
motte : Were not this, of all extant Forces, the cognate one that
would unite with Eminence Rohan's 2 Great moment, light-beam-
ing, fire-flashing; like birth of Minerva; like all moments of
Creation 1 Fancy how pulse and breath flutter, almost stop, in
the greatness: the great not Divine Idea, the great Diabolic Idea,
is too big for her.—Thought (how often must we repeat it?) rules
the world. Fire and, in a less degree, Frost; Earth and Sea (for
what is your swiftest ship, or steamship, but a Thought—embodied
in wood?); Reformed Parliaments, rise and ruin of Nations,—sale
of Diamonds: all things obey Thought. Countess de Saint-Remi
de Lamotte, by power of Thought, is now a made woman. With
force of genius she represses, crushes deep down, her Undivine
Idea; bends all her faculty to realise it. Prepare thyself, Reader,
for a series of the most surprising Dramatic Representations ever
exhibited on any stage. -
We hear tell of Dramatists, and scenic illusion how “natural,'
how illusive it was : if the spectator, for some half-moment, can
half-deceive himself into the belief that it was real, he departs
doubly content. With all which, and much more of the like, I
have no quarrel. But what must be thought of the Female Dra-
matist who, for eighteen long months, can exhibit the beautifullest
Fata-morgana to a plush Cardinal, wide awake, with fifty years on
his head; and so lap him in her scenic illusion that he never
doubts but it is all firm earth, and the pasteboard Coulisse-trees
are producing Hesperides apples? Could Madame de Lamotte,
then, have written a Hamlet & I conjecture, not. More goes to
28 MISCELLANIES.
the writing of a Hamlet than completest “imitation' of all charac-
ters and things in this Earth; there goes, before and beyond all,
the rarest understanding of these, insight into their hidden es-
sences and harmonies. Erasmus's Ape, as is known in Literary
History, sat by while its Master was shaving, and “imitated' every
point of the process; but its own foolish beard grew never the
Smoother.
As in looking at a finished Drama, it were nowise meet that
the spectator first of all got behind the scenes, and saw the burnt-
corks, brayed-resin, thunder-barrels, and withered hunger-bitten
men and women, of which such heroic work was made : So here
with the reader. A peep into the side-scenes shall be granted
him, from time to time. But, on the whole, repress, O reader,
that too insatiable scientific curiosity of thine; let thy asthetic
feeling first have play; and witness what a Prospero's-grotto poor
Eminence Rohan is led into, to be pleased he knows not why.
Survey first what we might call the stage-lights, orchestra,
general structure of the theatre, mood and condition of the audi-
ence. The theatre is the World, with its restless business and
madness; near at hand rise the royal Domes of Versailles, mystery
around them, and as background the memory of a thousand years.
By the side of the River Seine walks, haggard, wasted, a Joaillier-
Bijoutier de la Reine, with Necklace in his pocket. The audience
is a drunk Christopher Sly in the fittest humour. A fixed-idea,
driving him headlong over steep places, like that of the Gadarenes'
Swine, has produced a deceptibility, as of desperation, that will
clutch at straws. Understand one other word: Cagliostro is pro-
phesying to him " The Quack of Quacks has now for years had
him in leading. Transmitting ‘predictions in cipher;’ question-
ing, before Hieroglyphic Screens, Columbs in a state of innocence,
for elixirs of life, and philosopher's stone; unveiling, in fuliginous
clear-obscure, an imaginary majesty of Nature; he isolates him
more and more from all unpossessed men. Was it not enough
that poor Rohan had become a dissolute, somnolent-violent, ever-
vapoury Mud-volcano; but black Egyptian magic must be laid on
him
If perhaps, too, our Countess de Lamotte, with her blandish-
ments—? For though not beautiful, she ‘has a certain piquancy'
et cetera!—Enough, his poor Eminence sits in the fittest place, in
the fittest mood: a newly-awakened Christopher Sly; and with his
“small ale, too, beside him. Touch, only, the lights with firetipt
rod ; and let the orchestra, soft-warbling, strike up their fara-lara
fiddle-diddle-dee I
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 29
CHAPTER VII.
Marie-Antoinette.
Such a soft-warbling fara-lara was it to his Eminence, when, in
early January of the year 1784, our Countess first, mysteriously,
and under seal of sworn secrecy, hinted to him that, with her win-
ning tongue and great talent as Anecdotic Historian, she had
worked a passage to the ear of Queen's Majesty itself." Gods' dost
thou bring with thee airs from Heaven? Is thy face yet radiant
with some reflex of that Brightness beyond bright 2—Men with
fixed-idea are not as other men. To listen to a plain varnished
tale, such as your Dramatist can fashion; to ponder the words; to
snuff them up, as Ephraim did the east-wind, and grow flatulent
and drunk with them : what else could poor Eminence do? His
poor somnolent, so swift-rocked soul feels a new element infused
into it; turbid resinous light, wide-coruscating, glares over the
waste of his imagination. Is he interested in the mysterious tid-
ings? Hope has seized them; there is in the world nothing else
that interests him.
The secret friendship of Queens is not a thing to be let sleep:
ever new Palace Interviews occur;-yet in deepest privacy; for
how should her Majesty awaken so many tongues of Principalities
and Nobilities, male and female, that spitefully watch her? Above
all, however, “on the 2d of February,' that day of ‘the Procession
of blue Ribands,” much was spoken of: somewhat, too, of Mon-
seigneur de Rohan 1–Poor Monseigneur, hadst thou three long
ears, thou’dst hear her.
But will she not, perhaps, in some future priceless Interview,
speak a good word for thee? Thyself shalt speak it, happy Emi-
nence; at least, write it: our tutelary Countess will be the bearer!
—On the 21st of March goes off that long exculpatory imploratory
Letter: it is the first Letter that went off from Cardinal to Queen;
to be followed, in time, by “above two hundred others;’ which are
graciously answered by verbal Messages, nay at length by Royal
Autographs on gilt paper, the whole delivered by our tutelary
Countess.” The tutelary Countess comes and goes, fetching and
carrying; with the gravity of a Roman Augur, inspects those ex-
1 Compare Rohan's Mémoires pour (there are four of them), in the Affaire
du Collier, with Lamotte's four. They go on in the way of controversy, of
argument and response.
* Lamotte's Mémoires Justificatifs (London, 1788).
* See Georgel: see Lamotte's Mémoirºs, in her Appendix of ‘Documents'
to that volume, certain of these Letters are given.
30 4. MISCELLANIES.
traordinary chicken-bowls, and draws prognostics from them.
Things are in fair train: the Dauphiness took some offence at
Monseigneur, but the Queen has nigh forgotten it. No inexor-
able Queen; all no So good, so free, light-hearted ; only sore
beset with malicious Polignacs and others;–at times, also, short
of money.
Marie Antoinette, as the reader well knows, has been much
blamed for want of Etiquette. Even now, when the other accusa-
tions against her have sunk down to oblivion and the Father of
Lies, this of wanting Etiquette survives her;-in the Castle of
Ham, at this hour," M. de Polignac and Company may be wringing
their hands, not without an oblique glance at her for bringing them
thither. She indeed discarded Etiquette; once, when her carriage
broke down, she even entered a hackney-coach. She would walk,
too, at Trianon, in mere straw-hat, and perhaps muslin gown
Hence, the Knot of Etiquette being loosed, the Frame of Society
broke up; and those astonishing “Horrors of the French Revolu-
tion' supervened. On what Damocles' hairs must the judgment-
sword hang over this distracted Earth ! Thus, however, it was
that Tenterden Steeple brought an influx of the Atlantic on us,
and so Godwin Sands. Thus, too, might it be that because Father
Noah took the liberty of, say, rinsing out his wine-vat, his Ark was
floated off, and a world drowned.—Beautiful Highborn that wert
so foully hurled low ! For, if thy Being came to thee out of old
Hapsburg Dynasties, came it not also (like my own) out of Hea-
ven 2 Sunt lachryma rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt. Oh, is
there a man's heart that thinks, without pity, of those long months
and years of slow-wasting ignominy;—of thy Birth, soft-cradled in
Imperial Schönbrunn, the winds of heaven not to visit thy face
too roughly, thy foot to light on softness, thy eye on splendour;
and then of thy Death, or hundred Deaths, to which the Guillotine
and Fouquier Tinville's judgment-bar was but the merciful end ?
Look there, O man born of woman The bloom of that fair face is
wasted, the hair is gray with care; the brightness of those eyes is
quenched, their lids hang drooping, the face is stony pale as of one
living in death. Mean weeds, which her own hand has mended,”
attire the Queen of the World. The death-hurdle, where thou
sittest pale motionless, which only curses environ, has to stop: a
people, drunk with vengeance, will drink it again in full draught,
looking at thee there. Far as the eye reaches, a multitudinous
1 A.D. 1831.
" * Weber: Mémoires concernant Mºrie-Antoinette (London, 1809), tome iii.,
notes, 106. . -
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 31
sea of maniac heads; the air deaf with their triumph-yell! The
| Living-dead must shudder with yet one other pang; her startled
blood yet again suffuses with the hue of agony that pale face, which
she hides with her hands. There is then no heart to say, God pity
thee ? O think not of these ; think of HIM whom thou worship-
pest, the Crucified,—who also treading the wine-press alone, fronted
sorrow still deeper; and triumphed over it, and made it holy; and
built of it a “Sanctuary of Sorrow,' for thee and all the wretched
Thy path of thorns is nigh ended. One long last look at the Tui-
leries, where thy step was once so light, where thy children shall
not dwell. The head is on the block; the axe rushes—Dumb lies
the World; that wild-yelling World, and all its madness, is behind
thee.
Beautiful Highborn that wert so foully hurled low ! Rest yet
in thy innocent gracefully heedless seclusion, unintruded on by
me, while rude hands have not yet desecrated it. Be the curtains,
that shroud-in (if for the last time on this Earth) a Royal Life, still
sacred to me. Thy fault, in the French Revolution, was that thou
wert the Symbol of the Sin and Misery of a thousand years; that
with Saint-Bartholomews, and Jacqueries, with Gabelles, and Dra-
gonades, and Parcs-aux-cerfs, the heart of mankind was filled full,
—and foamed over, into all-involving madness. To no Napoleon,
to no Cromwell wert thou wedded: such sit not in the highest
rank, of themselves; are raised on high by the shaking and con-
founding of all the ranks! As poor peasants, how happy, worthy
had ye two been But by evil destiny ye were made a King and
Queen of; and so both once more—are become an astonishment
and a by-word to all times.
CHAPTER VIII.
The Two Fiaced-Ideas will unite.
“Countess de Lamotte, then, had penetrated into the confidence
of the Queen? Those gilt-paper Autographs were actually written
by the Queen 2° Reader, forget not to repress that too insatiable
scientific curiosity of thine ! What I know is, that a certain Wil-
lette-de-Rétaux, with military whiskers, denizen of Rascaldom;
comrade there of Monsieur le Comte, is skilful in imitating hands.
Certain it is also, that Madame la Comtesse has penetrated to the
Trianon–Doorkeeper's. Nay, as Campan herself must admit, she
has met, “at a Man-midwife's in Versailles, with worthy Queen's.
Valet Lesclaux,−or Desclos, for there is no uniformity in it. With
these, or the like of these, she in the back-parlour of the Palace
itself (if late enough), may pick a merrythought, sip the foam from
32 MISCELLANIES,
, a glass of Champagne. No farther seek her honours to disclose,
for the present; or anatomically dissect, as we said, those extra-
ordinary chicken-bowels, from which she, and she alone, can read
Decrees of Fate, and also realise them.
Sceptic, seest thou his Eminence waiting there, in the moon-
light; hovering to and fro on the back terrace, till she come out—
from the ineffable Interview?" He is close muffled; walks rest-
lessly observant; shy also, and courting the shade. She comes:
up closer with thy capote, O Eminence, down with thy broadbrim;
for she has an escortſ 'Tis but the good Monsieur Queen's-valet
Lesclaux: and now he is sent back again, as no longer needful.
Mark him, Monseigneur, nevertheless; thou wilt see him yet ano-
ther time. Monseigneur marks little: his heart is in the ineffable
Interview, in the gilt-paper Autograph alone.—Queen's-valet Les-
claux 2 Methinks, he has much the stature of Willette, denizen
of Rascaldom | Impossible !
How our Countess managed with Cagliostro? Cagliostro, gone
from Strasburg, is as yet far distant, winging his way through dim
Space; will not be here for months: only his ‘predictions in ci-
pher' are here. Here or there, however, Cagliostro, to our Coun-
tess, can be useful. At a glance, the eye of genius has descried
him to be a bottomless slough of falsity, vanity, gulosity and thick-
eyed stupidity: of foulest material, but of fattest;-fit compost for
the Plant she is rearing. Him who has deceived all Europe she
can undertake to deceive. His Columbs, demonic Masonries, Egyp-
tian Elixirs, what is all this to the light-giggling exclusively prac-
tical Lamotte? It runs off from her, as all speculation, good, bad
and indifferent, has always done, “like water from one in wax-cloth.
dress.” With the lips meanwhile she can honour it; Oil of Flat-
tery, the best patent antifriction known, subdues all irregularities
whatsoever.
On Cagliostro, again, on his side, a certain uneasy feeling might,
for moments, intrude itself; the raven loves not ravens. But what
can he do? Nay, she is partly playing his game: can he not spill
her full cup yet, at the right season, and pack her out of doors?
Oftenest, in their joyous orgies, this light fascinating Countess,
who perhaps has a design on his heart, seems to him but one other
of those light Papiliones, who have fluttered round him in all cli-
mates; whom with grim muzzle he has snapt by the thousand.
Thus, what with light fascinating Countess, what with Quack
of Quacks, poor Eminence de Rohan lies safe; his mud-volcano
! See Georgel. ... •
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 33
placidly simmering in thick Egyptian haze: withdrawn from all
the world. Moving figures, as of men, he sees; takes not the
trouble to look at. Court-cousins rally him; are answered in si-
lence; or, if it go too far, in mud-explosions terrifico-absurd.
Court-cousins and all mankind are unreal shadows merely; Queen's
favour the only substance.
Nevertheless, the World, on its side too, has an existence; lies
not idle in these days. It has got its Versailles Treaty signed, long
months ago; and the plenipotentiaries all home again, for votes of
thanks. Paris, London and other great Cities and small, are work-
ing, intriguing; dying, being born. There, in the Rue Taranne,
for instance, the once noisy Denis Diderot has fallen silent enough.
Here also, in Bolt Court, old Samuel Johnson, like an over-wearied
Giant, must lie down, and slumber without dream ;-the rattling
of carriages and wains, and all the world's din and business rolling
by, as ever, from of old.—Sieur Boehmer, however, has not yet
drowned himself in the Seine; only walks haggard, wasted, pur-
posing to do it. -
News (by the merest accident in the world) reach Sieur Boeh-
mer, of Madame's new favour with her Majesty! Men will do
much before they drown. Sieur Boehmer's Necklace is on Ma-
dame's table, his guttural-nasal rhetoric in her ear: he will abate
many a pound and penny of the first just price; he will give cheer-
fully a Thousand Louis-d'or, as cadeau, to the generous Scion-of-
Royalty that shall persuade her Majesty. The man's importuni-
ties grow quite annoying to our Countess; who, in her glib way,
satirically prattles how she has been bored,—to Monseigneur,
among others.
Dozing on down cushions, far inwards, with soft ministering
Hebes, and luxurious appliances; with ranked Heyducs, and a
Valetaille innumerable, that shut out the prose-world and its dis-
cord: thus lies Monseigneur, in enchanted dream. Can he, even
in sleep, forget his tutelary Countess, and her service 2 By the
delicatest presents he alleviates her distresses, most undeserved.
Nay, once or twice, gilt Autographs, from a Queen, with whom he
is evidently rising to unknown heights in favour, have done Mon-
seigneur the honour to make him her Majesty's Grand Almoner,
when the case was pressing. Monseigneur, we say, has had the
honour to disburse charitable cash, on her Majesty's behalf, to
this or the other distressed deserving object: say only to the
length of a few thousand pounds, advanced from his own funds;
—her Majesty being at the moment so poor, and charity a thing
that will not wait. Always Madame, good, foolish, gadding crea-
WOL. IV. - ID
34 MISCELLANIES.
ture, takes charge of delivering the money.—Madame can descend
from her attics, in the Belle Image; and feel the smiles of Nature
and Fortune, a little; so bounteous has the Queen's Majesty been."
To Monseigneur the power of money over highest female hearts
had never been incredible. Presents have, many times, worked
wonders. But then, O Heavens, what present? Scarcely were
the Cloud-Compeller himself, all coined into new Louis-d'or, wor-
thy to alight in such a lap. Loans, charitable disbursements, how-
ever, as we see, are permissible; these, by defect of payment, may
become presents. In the vortex of his Eminence's day-dreams,
lumbering multiform slowly round, this of importunate Boehmer
and his Necklace, from time to time, turns up. Is the Queen's
Majesty at heart desirous of it; but again, at the moment, too
poor? Our tutelary Countess answers vaguely, mysteriously;-
confesses, at last, under oath of secrecy, her own private suspicion
that the Queen wants this same Necklace, of all things; but dare
not, for a stingy husband, buy it. She, the Countess de Lamotte,
will look farther into the matter; and, if aught serviceable to his
Eminence can be suggested, in a good way suggest it, in the pro-
per quarter. -
Walk warily, Countess de Lamotte; for now, with thickening
breath, thou approachest the moment of moments' Principalities
and Powers, Parlement, Grand Chambre and Tournelle, with all their
whips and gibbet-wheels; the very Crack of Doom hangs over thee,
if thou trip. Forward, with nerve of iron, on shoes of felt; like a
Treasure-digger, in silence, looking neither to the right nor left, L
where yawn abysses deep as the Pool, and all Pandemonium hovers,
eager to rend thee into rags
CHAPTER IX.
Park of Versailles.
Or will the reader incline rather, taking the other and sunny
side of the matter, to enter that Lamottic-Circean theatrical esta-
blishment of Monseigneur de Rohan; and see there how, under
the best of Dramaturgists, Melodrama with sweeping pall flits
past him; while the enchanted Diamond fruit is gradually ripen-
ing, to fall by a shake?
The 28th of July, of this same momentous 1784, has come ; and
with it the most rapturous tumult into the heart of Monseigneur.
Ineffable expectancy stirs-up his whole soul, with the much that
lies therein, from its lowest foundations: borne on wild seas to
1 Georgel. Rohan's four Mémoires powr ; Lamotte's four.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 35
Armida Islands, yet as is fit, through Horror dim-hovering round,
he tumultuously rocks. To the Château, to the Park This might
the Queen will meet thee, the Queen herself: so far has our tute-
lary Countess brought it. What can ministerial impediments, Po-
lignac intrigues, avail against the favour, nay—Heaven and Earth!
—perhaps the tenderness of a Queen? She vanishes from amid
their meshwork of Etiquette and Cabal; descends from her celes-
tial Zodiac, to thee a shepherd of Latmos. Alas, a white-bearded
pursy shepherd, fat and scant of breath ! Who can account for
the taste of females? But thou, burnish-up thy whole faculties
of gallantry, thy fifty-years experience of the sex; this night, or
never!—In such unutterable meditations does Monseigneur rest-
lessly spend the day; and long for darkness, yet dread it.
Darkness has at length come. The perpendicular rows of
Heyducs, in that Palais or Hôtel de Strasbourg, are all cast pros-
trate in sleep ; the very Concierge resupine, with open mouth,
audibly drinks-in nepenthe; when Monseigneur, ‘in blue great-
coat, with slouched hat,' issues softly, with his henchman Planta
of the Grisons, to the Park of Versailles. Planta must loiter in-
visible in the distance ; Slouched-hat will wait here, among the
leafy thickets; till our tutelary Countess, ‘in black domino, an-
nounce the moment, which surely must be near.
The night is of the darkest for the season; no Moon; warm,
slumbering July, in motionless clouds, drops fatness over the
Earth. The very stars from the Zenith see not Monseigneur;
see only his and the world's cloud-covering, fringed with twilight
in the far North. Midnight, telling itself forth from these shadowy
Palace Domes? All the steeples of Versailles, the villages around,
with metal tongue, and huge Paris itself dull-droning, answer
drowsily, Yes! Sleep rules this Hemisphere of the World. From
Arctic to Antarctic, the Life of our Earth lies all, in long swaths,
or rows (like those rows of Heyducs and snoring Concierge),
successively mown down, from vertical to horizontal, by Sleep !
Rather curious to consider.
The flowers are all asleep in Little Trianon, the roses folded-
in for the night; but the Rose of Roses still wakes. O wondrous
Earth ! O doubly wondrous Park of Versailles, with Little and
Great Trianon, and a scarce-breathing Monseigneur ! Ye Hy-
draulics of Lenôtre, that also slumber, with stop-cocks, in your
deep leaden chambers, babble not of him, when ye arise. Ye odor-
ous balm-shrubs, huge spectral Cedars, thou sacred Boscage of
Hornbeam, ye dim Pavilions of the Peerless, whisper not? Moon,
lie silent, hidden in thy vacant cave; no star look down: let neither
Heaven nor Hell peep through the blanket of the Night, to cry,
36 MISCELLANIES.
Hold, Hold !—The Black Domino? Ha! Yes!—With stouter
step than might have been expected, Monseigneur is under way;
the Black Domino had only to whisper, low and eager: “In the
Hornbeam Arbour !” And now, Cardinal, O now !—Yes, there
hovers the white Celestial; ‘in white robe of limon moucheté, finer
than moonshine; a Juno by her bearing: there, in that bosket ! .
Monseigneur, down on thy knees; never can red breeches be
better wasted. Oh, he would kiss the royal shoe-tie, or its shadow
if there were one: not words; only broken gaspings, murmuring
prostrations, eloquently speak his meaning. But, ah, behold !
Our tutelary Black Domino, in haste, with vehement whisper:
“On vient.” The white Juno drops a fairest Rose, with these
evermemorable words, “Vous savez ce que cela veut dire, You know
what that means; ” vanishes in the thickets, the Black Domino
hurrying her with eager whisper of “Vite, vite, Away, away !” for
the sound of footsteps (doubtless from Madame, and Madame
d'Artois, unwelcome sisters that they are ) is approaching fast.
Monseigneur picks-up his Rose; runs as for the King's plate, almost
overturns poor Planta, whose laugh assures him that all is safe."
O Ixion de Rohan, happiest mortal of this world, since the
first Ixion, of deathless memory, who nevertheless, in that cloud-
embrace, begat strange Centaurs! Thou art Prime Minister of
France without peradventure: is not this the Rose of Royalty,
worthy to become ottar of roses, and yield perfume forever? How
thou, of all people, wilt contrive to govern France, in these very
peculiar times—But that is little to the matter. There, doubt-
less, is thy Rose (which, methinks, it were well to have a Box or
Casket made for): nay, was there not in the dulcet of thy Juno's
“Vous savez " a kind of trepidation, a quaver, as of still deeper
meanings -
Reader, there is hitherto no item of this miracle that is not
historically proved and true.—In distracted black-magical phantas-
magory, adumbrations of yet higher and highest Dalliances” hover
stupendous in the background: whereof your Georgels, and Cam-
pans, and other official characters can take no notice | There, in
distracted black-magical phantasmagory, let these hover. The
* Compare Georgel, Lamotte's Mémoires Justificatifs, and the Mémoires
our of the various parties, especially Gay d’Oliva's. Georgel places the scene
in the year 1785; quite wrong. Lamotte's “royal Autographs’ (as given in
the Appendix to Mémoires Justificatifs) seem to be misdated as to the day of
the month. There is endless confusion of dates.
* Lamotte's Mémoires Justificatifs; Ms. Songs in the Affaire du Collier,
&c. &c. Nothing can exceed the brutality of these things (unfit for Print or
Pen); which nevertheless found believers, increase of believers, in the public
exasperation; and did the Queen, say all her historians, incalculable damage.
TEE I) RAMOND NECELACE. 37
truth of them for us is that they do so hover. The truth of them
in itself is known only to three persons: Dame self-styled Countess
de Lamotte; the Devil; and Philippe Egalité, -who furnished
money and facts for the Lamotte Memoirs, and, before guillotine-
ment, begat the present King of the French. &
Enough, that Ixion de Rohan, lapsed almost into deliquium,
by such sober certainty of waking bliss, is the happiest of all
men; and his tutelary Countess the dearest of all women, save
one only. On the 25th of August (so strong still are those vil-
lanous Drawing-room cabals) he goes, weeping, but submissive,
by order of a gilt Autograph, home to Saverne; till farther dig-
nities can be matured for him. He carries his Rose, now con-
siderably faded, in a Casket of fit price; may, if he so please,
perpetuate it as pot-pourri. He names a favourite walk in his
Archiepiscopal pleasure-grounds, Promenade de la Rose ; there let
him court digestion, and loyally somnambulate till called for.
I notice it as a coincidence in chronology, that, few days after
this date, the Demoiselle (or even, for the last month, Baroness)
Gay d’Oliva began to find Countess de Lamotte ‘not at home, in
her fine Paris hotel, in her fine Charonne country-house; and
went no more, with Villette, and such pleasant dinner-guests, and
her, to see Beaumarchais' Mariage de Figaro* running its hundred
nights.
CEIAPTER X.
Behind the Scenes.
“The Queen?” Good reader, thou surely art not a Partridge
the Schoolmaster, or a Monseigneur de Rohan, to mistake the
stage for a reality —“But who this Demoiselle d'Oliva was 2.”
Iłeader, let us remark rather how the labours of our Dramaturgic
Countess are increasing.
New actors I see on the scene; not one of whom shall guess
what the other is doing; or, indeed, know rightly what himself is
doing. For example, cannot Messieurs de Lamotte and Villette,
of Rascaldom, like Nisus and Euryalus, take a midnight walk of
contemplation, with ‘footsteps of Madame and Madame d'Artois'
(since all footsteps are much the same), without offence to any
one? A Queen's Similitude can believe that a Queen's Self, for
frolic's sake, is looking at her through the thickets;” a terrestrial
Cardinal can kiss with devotion a celestial Queen's slipper, or
Queen's Similitude's slipper-and no one but a Black Domino
1 Gay d’Oliva's First Mémoire powr, p. 37.
* See Lamotte ; see Gay d’Oliva.
38 MISCEI.LANIES.
the wiser. All these shall follow each his precalculated course;
for their inward mechanism is known, and fit wires hook them-
selves on this. To Two only is a clear belief vouchsafed : to
Monseigneur, a clear belief founded on stupidity; to the great
creative Dramaturgist, sitting at the heart of the whole mystery,
a clear belief founded on completest insight. Great creative Dra-
maturgist! How, like Schiller, “by union of the Possible with
the Necessarily-existing, she brings out the '—Eighty thousand
Pounds ! Don Aranda, with his triple-sealed missives and hood-
winked secretaries, bragged justly that he cut down the Jesuits in
one day: but here, without ministerial salary, or King's favour, or
any help beyond her own black domino, labours a greater than
he. How she advances, stealthily, stedfastly, with Argus eye and
ever-ready brain; with nerve of iron, on shoes of felt | O worthy
to have intrigued for Jesuitdom, for Pope's Tiara;-to have been
Pope Joan thyself, in those old days; and as Arachne of Arachnes,
sat in the centre of that stupendous spider-web, which, reaching
from Goa to Acapulco, and from Heaven to Hell, overnetted the
thoughts and souls of men —Of which spider-web stray tatters,
in favourable dewy mornings, even yet become visible.
The Demoiselle d'Oliva? She is a Parisian Demoiselle of three-
and-twenty, tall, blond and beautiful; from unjust guardians, and
an evil world, she has had somewhat to suffer.
“In this month of June 1784,’ says the Demoiselle herself, in
her (judicial) Autobiography, ‘I occupied a small apartment in
“ the Rue du Jour, Quartier St. Eustache. I was not far from the
‘Garden of the Palais Royal; I had made it my usual promenade.’
For, indeed, the real God’s-truth is, I was a Parisian unfortunate-
female, with moderate custom; and one must go where his market
lies. “I frequently passed three or four hours of the afternoon
‘there, with some women of my acquaintance, and a little child of
“four years old, whom I was fond of, whom his parents willingly
“trusted with me. I even went thither alone, except for him,
‘when other company failed. -
‘One afternoon, in the month of July following, I was at the
‘ Palais-Royal : my whole company, at the moment, was the child
* I was then presented ‘to two Ladies, one of whom was remarkable for
the richness of her shape: she had blue eyes and chestnut hair’ (Bette d’Etien-
ville's Second Mémoire pour; in the Suite de l'Affaire du Collier). This is she
whom Bette, and Bette's Advocate, intended the world to take for Gay d’Oliva.
* The other is of middle size: dark eyes, chestnut hair, white complexion : the
“sound of her voice is agreeable ; she speaks perfectly well, and with no less
“faculty than vivacity:’ this one is meant for Lamotte. Oliva's real name
was Essigny; the Oliva (OLISVA, anagram of VALOIS) was given hor by La-
motte along with the title of Baroness (Ms. Note, Affaire du Collier).
THE DIAMOND NECECLACE. 39
“I speak of. A tall young man, walking alone, passes several
‘times before me. He was a man I had never seen. He looks at
‘me; he looks fixedly at me. I observe even that always, as he
‘comes near, he slackens his pace, as if to Survey me more at
‘ leisure. A chair stood vacant; two or three feet from mine. He
‘seats himself there.
‘Till this instant, the sight of the young man, his walks, his
“approaches, his repeated gazings, had made no impression on
‘me. But now when he was sitting so close by, I could not avoid
‘noticing him. His eyes ceased not to wander over all my person.
“His air becomes earnest, grave. An unquiet curiosity appears
“to agitate him. He seems to measure my figure, to seize by
‘turns all parts of my physiognomy.”—He finds me (but whispers
not a syllable of it) tolerably like, both in person and profile; for
even the Abbé Georgel says, I was a belle courtisane.
‘It is time to name this young man: he was the Sieur de
Lamotte, styling himself Comte de Lamotte.' Who doubts it?
He praises ‘my feeble charms;’ expresses a wish to ‘pay his ad-
dresses to me.’ I, being a lone spinster, know not what to say ;
think it best in the mean while to retire. Vain precaution ‘I
see him all on a sudden appear in my apartment l’
On his ‘ninth visit' (for he was always civility itself), he talks
of introducing a great Court-lady, by whose means I may even do
her Majesty some little secret-service,—the reward of which will
be unspeakable. In the dusk of the evening, silks mysteriously
rustle : enter the creative Dramaturgist, Dame styled Countess de
Lamotte ; and so—the too intrusive scientific reader has now, for
his punishment, got on the wrong-side of that loveliest Trans-
parency; finds nothing but grease-pots, and vapour of expiring
wicks |
The Demoiselle Gay d’Oliva may once more sit, or stand, in
the Palais-Royal, with such custom as will come. In due time,
she shall again, but with breath of Terror, be blown upon ; and
blown out of France to Brussels.
CHAPTER XI.
The Necklace is 8old.
Autumn, with its gray moaning winds and coating of red strewn
leaves, invites Courtiers to enjoy the charms of Nature; and all
business of moment stands still. Countess de Lamotte, while
everything is so stagnant, and even Boehmer has locked-up his
40 MISCELLANIES,
Necklace and his hopes for the season, can drive, with her Count
and Euryalus Willette, down to native Bar-sur-Aube; and there
(in virtue of a Queen's bounty) show the envióus a Scion-of-royalty
re-grafted ; and make them yellower looking on it. A well-var-
nished chariot, with the Arms of Valois duly painted in bend-
sinister; a house gallantly furnished, bodies gallantly attired,—
secure them the favourablest reception from all manner of men.
The very Duc de Penthièvre (Egalité's father-in-law) welcomes
our Lamotte, with that urbanity characteristic of his high station
and the old school. Worth, indeed, makes the man, or woman ;
but “leather' of gig-straps, and ‘prunella’ of gig-lining, first makes
it go.
The great creative Dramaturgist has thus let down her drop-
scene; and only, with a Letter or two to Saverne, or even a visit
thither (for it is but a day's drive from Bar), keeps up a due modi-
cum of intermediate instrumental music. She needs some pause,
in good sooth, to collect herself a little; for the last act and grand
Catastrophe is at hand. Two fixed-ideas, Cardinal's and Jeweller's,
a negative and a positive, have felt each other; stimulated now by
new hope, are rapidly revolving round each other, and approxi-
mating; like two flames, are stretching-out long fire-tongues to
join and be one.
Boehmer, on his side, is ready with the readiest; as indeed
he has been these four long years. The Countess, it is true, will
have neither part nor lot in that foolish Cadeau of his, or in the
whole foolish Necklace business: this she has, in plain words,
and even not without asperity, due to a bore of such magnitude,
given him to know. From her, nevertheless, by cunning infer-
ence, and the merest accident in the world, the sly Joaillier-
Bijoutier has gleaned thus much, that Monseigneur de Rohan is
the man.—Enough ! Enough ! Madame shall be no more troubled.
Rest there, in hope, thou Necklace of the Devil; but, O Monseig-
neur, be thy return speedy
Alas, the man lives not that would be speedier than Mon-
seigneur, if he durst. But as yet no gilt Autograph invites him,
permits him; the few gilt Autographs are all negatory, procrasti-
nating. Cabals of Court; forever cabals | Nay if it be not for
some Necklace, or other such crotchet or necessity, who knows
but he may never be recalled (so fickle is womankind); but for-
gotten, and left to rot here, like his Rose, into pot-pourri & Our
tutelary Countess, too, is shyer in this matter than we ever saw
her. Nevertheless, by intense skilful cross-questioning, he has
extorted somewhat ; sees partly how it stands. The Queen's
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 41
Majesty will have her Necklace; for when, in such case, had not
woman her way? The Queen's Majesty can even pay for it—by
instalments; but then the stingy husband Once for all, she will
not be seen in the business. Now, therefore, Were it, or were it
not, permissible to mortal to transact it secretly in her stead?
That is the question. If to mortal, then to Monseigneur. Our
Countess has even ventured to hint afar off at Monseigneur (kind
Countess') in the proper quarter; but his discretion in regard to
..' money-matters is doubted. Discretion? And I on the Promenade
de la Rose 3–Explode not, O Eminence 1 Trust will spring of trial;
thy hour is coming.
The Lamottes meanwhile have left their farewell card with all
the respectable classes of Bar-sur-Aube; our Dramaturgist stands
again behind the scenes at Paris. How is it, O Monseigneur, that
she is still so shy with thee, in this matter of the Necklace; that
she leaves the love-lorn Latmian shepherd to droop, here in lone
Saverne, like weeping-ash, in naked winter, on his Promenade of
the Rose, with vague commonplace responses that his hour is
coming?—By Heaven and Earth ! at last, in late January, it is come.
Behold it, this new gilt Autograph: ‘To Paris, on a small business
of delicacy, which our Countess will explain,'—which I already
know ! To Paris | Horses; postilions; beef-eaters 1—And so his
resuscitated Eminence, all wrapt in furs, in the pleasantest frost
(Abbé Georgel says, un beau froid de Janvier), over clear jingling
highways rolls rapidly,–borne on the bosom of Dreams.
O Dame de Lamotte, has the enchanted Diamond fruit ripened,
then? Hast thou given it the little shake, big with unutterable
fate?—I? can the Dame justly retort: Who saw me in it?—The
reader, therefore, has still Three scenic Exhibitions to look at, by
our great Dramaturgist; then the Fourth and last,--by another
Author.
To us, reflecting how oftenest the true moving force in human
things works hidden underground, it seems small marvel that this
month of January 1785, wherein our Countess so little courts the
eye of the vulgar historian, should nevertheless have been the
busiest of all for her; especially the latter half thereof.
Wisely eschewing matters of Business (which she could never
in her life understand), our Countess will personally take no charge
of that bargain-making; leaves it all to her Majesty and the gilt
Autographs. Assiduous Boehmer nevertheless is in frequent close
conference with Monseigneur: the Paris Palais-de-Strasbourg, shut
to the rest of men, sees the Joaillier-Bijoutier, with eager official
42 MISOELLANIES,
aspect, come and go. The grand difficulty is—must we say it?—
her Majesty's wilful whimsicality, unacquaintance with Business.
She positively will not write a gilt Autograph, authorising his Emi-
nence to make the bargain; but writes rather, in a pettish manner,
that the thing is of no consequence, and can be given up ! Thus
must the poor Countess dash to and fro, like a weaver's shuttle, be-
tween Paris and Versailles; wear her horses and nerves to pieces;
nay, sometimes in the hottest haste, wait many hours within call
of the Palace, considering what can be done (with none but Villette
to bear her company), till the Queen's whim pass.
At length, after furious-driving and conferences enough, on the
29th of January, a middle course is hit on. Cautious Boehmer
shall write out, on finest paper, his terms; which are really rather
fair: Sixteen hundred thousand livres; to be paid in five equal in-
stalments; the first this day six months; the other four from three
months to three months; this is what Court-Jewellers, Boehmer
and Bassange, on the one part, and Prince Cardinal Commendator
Louis de Rohan, on the other part, will stand to ; witness their
hands. Which written sheet of finest paper our poor Countess
must again take charge of, again dash-off with to Versailles; and
therefrom, after trouble unspeakable (shared in only by the faith-
ful Willette, of Rascaldom), return with it, bearing this most pre-
cious marginal note, “Bon—Marie-Antoinette de France,' in the Au-
tograph-hand Happy Cardinal this thou shalt keep in the inner-
most of all thy repositories. Boehmer meanwhile, secret as Death,
shall tell no man that he has sold his Necklace; or if much pressed
for an actual sight of the same, confess that it is sold to the Favour-
ite Sultana of the Grand Turk for the time being."
Thus, then, do the smoking Lamotte horses at length get rub-
bed down, and feel the taste of oats, after midnight; the Lamotte
Countess can also gradually sink into needful slumber, perhaps not
unbroken by dreams. On the morrow the bargain shall be con-
cluded; next day the Necklace be delivered, on Monseigneur's
receipt.
Will the reader, therefore, be pleased to glance at the following
two Life-Pictures, Real-Phantasmagories, or whatever we may call
them : they are the two first of those Three scenic real-poetic Ex-
hibitions, brought about by our Dramaturgist: short Exhibitions,
but essential ones.
1 Campan.
THE DIAMOND NECRLACE. 43
CHAPTER XII.
The Necklace vanishes.
It is the first day of February; that grand day of Delivery.
The Sieur Boehmer is in the Court of the Palais de Strasbourg;
his look mysterious-official, and though much emaciated, radiant
with enthusiasm. The Seine has missed him; though lean, he will
fatten again, and live through new enterprises.
Singular, were we not used to it: the name “Boehmer,” as it
passes upwards and inwards, lowers all halberts of Heyducs in per-
pendicular rows: the historical eye beholds him, bowing low, with
plenteous smiles, in the plush Saloon of Audience. Will it please
Monseigneur, then, to do the ne-plus-ultra of Necklaces the honour
of looking at it? A piece of Art, which the Universe cannot paral-
lel, shall be parted with (Necessity compels Court-Jewellers) at that
ruinously low sum. They, the Court-Jewellers, shall have much
ado to weather it; but their work, at least, will find a fit Wearer,
and go down to juster posterity. Monseigneur will merely have
the condescension to sign this Receipt of Delivery: all the rest,
her Highness the Sultana of the Sublime Porte has settled it.—
Here the Court-Jeweller, with his joyous though now much-emaci-
ated face, ventures on a faint knowing smile; to which, in the lofty
dissolute-Serene of Monseigneur's, some twinkle of permission
could not but respond.—This is the First of those Three real-poetic
Exhibitions, brought about by our Dramaturgist,--with perfect
Sll CCéSS.
It was said, long afterwards, that Monseigneur should have
known, and even that Boehmer should have known, her Highness
the Sultana's marginal-note, her “Right—Marie Antoinette of France,’
to be a forgery and mockery: the ‘of France' was fatal to it. Easy
talking, easy criticising! But how are two enchanted men to
know; two men with a fixed-idea each, a negative and a positive,
rushing together to neutralise each other in rapture?—Enough,
Monseigneur has the ne-plus-ultra of Necklaces, conquered by man's
valour and woman's wit; and rolls off with it, in mysterious speed,
to Versailles, triumphant as a Jason with his Golden Fleece.
The Second grand scenic Exhibition by our Dramaturgic Count-
ess occurs in her own apartment at Versailles, so early as the fol-
lowing night. It is a commodious apartment, with alcove; and the
alcove has a glass door." Monseigneur enters, with a follower
bearing a mysterious Casket, who carefully deposits it, and then
* Georgel, &c.
44 MISCELLANIES.
respectfully withdraws. It is the Necklace itself in all its glory!
Our tutelary Countess, and Monseigneur, and we, can at leisure
admire the queenly Talisman; congratulate ourselves that the
painful conquest of it is achieved.
But, hist! A knock, mild but decisive, as from one knocking
with authority! Monseigneur and we retire to our alcove; there,
from behind our glass screen, observe what passes. Who comes?
The door flung open: de par la Reine ! Behold him, Monseigneur:
he enters with grave, respectful, yet official air; worthy Monsieur
Queen's-valet Lesclaux, the same who escorted our tutelary Count-
ess, that moonlight night, from the back apartments of Versailles.
Said we not, thou wouldst see him once more?—Methinks, again,
spite of his Queen's-uniform, he has much the features of Willette of
Rascaldom —Rascaldom or Valetdom (for to the blind all colours
are the same), he has, with his grave, respectful, yet official air, re-
ceived the Casket, and its priceless contents; with fit injunction,
with fit engagements; and retires bowing low.
Thus softly, silently, like a very Dream, flits away our solid
Necklace—through the Horn Gate of Dreams!
CHAPTER XIII.
Scene Third: by Dame de Lamotte.
Now too, in these same days (as he can afterwards prove by affi-
davit of Landlords) arrives Count Cagliostro himself, from Lyons !
No longer by predictions in cipher; but by his living voice, often
in wrapt communion with the unseen world, “with Caraffe and
four candles;’ by his greasy prophetic bulldog face, said to be the
‘most perfect quack-face of the eighteenth century,’ can we assure
ourselves that all is well; that all will turn ‘to the glory of Mon-
seigneur, to the good of France, and of mankind,” and of Egyp-
tian masonry. “Tokay flows like water;' our charming Countess,
with her piquancy of face, is sprightlier than ever; enlivens with
the brightest sallies, with the adroitest flatteries to all, those sup-
pers of the gods. O Nights, O Suppers—too good to last! Nay,
now also occurs another and Third scenic Exhibition, fitted by its
radiance to dispel from Monseigneur's soul the last trace of care.
Why the Queen does not, even yet, openly receive me at Court?
Patience, Monseigneur ! Thou little knowest those too intricate
cabals; and how she still but works at them silently, with royal
suppressed fury, like a royal lioness only delivering herself from the
hunter's toils. Meanwhile, is not thy work done? The Necklace,
* Georgel, &c.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 45
she rejoices over it; beholds, many times in secret, her Juno-neck
mirrored back the lovelier for it, as our tutelar Countess can tes-
tify. Come tomorrow to the CEil-de-Ba'uf; there see with eyes, in
high noon, as already in deep midnight thou hast seen, whether in
her royal heart there were delay.
Let us stand, then, with Monseigneur, in that CEil-de-Baeuf, in
the Versailles Palace Gallery; for all well-dressed persons are ad-
mitted: there the Loveliest, in pomp of royalty, will walk to mass.
The world is all in pelisses and winter furs; cheerful, clear;-with
noses tending to blue. A lively many-voiced hum plays fitful,
hither and thither : of sledge parties and Court parties; frosty
state of the weather; stability of M. de Calonne; Majesty's looks
yesterday; —such hum as always, in these sacred Court-spaces,
since Louis le Grand made and consecrated them, has, with more
or less impetuosity, agitated our common Atmosphere.
Ah, through that long high Gallery what Figures have passed
—and vanished Louvois, with the Great King, flashing fire-
glances on the fugitive; in his red right hand a pair of tongs, which
pious Maintenon hardly holds back: Louvois, where art thou? Ye
Maréchaua de France? Ye unmentionable-women of past genera-
tions? Here also was it that rolled and rushed the “sound, abso-
lutely like thunder,” of Courtier hosts; in that dark hour when the
signal-light in Louis the Fifteenth's chamber-window was blown
out; and his ghastly infectious Corpse lay lone, forsaken on its
tumbled death-lair, “in the hands of some poor women;' and the
Courtier-hosts rushed from the Deep-fallen to hail the New-risen!
These too rushed, and passed; and their “sound, absolutely like
thunder,’ became silence. Figures? Men? They are fast-fleeting
Shadows; fast chasing each other: it is not a Palace, but a Cara-
vansera.—Monseigneur (with thy too much Tokay overnight) |
cease puzzling: here thou art, this blessed February day:—the
Peerless, will she turn lightly that high head of hers, and glance
aside into the CEil-de-Bouf, in passing? Please Heaven, she will.
To our tutelary Countess, at least, she promised it;” though, alas,
so fickle is womankind 1–
Hark! Clang of opening doors She issues, like the Moon
in silver brightness, down the Eastern steeps. La Reine vient 1
What a figure I (with the aid of glasses) discern her. O Fairest,
Peerless | Let the hum of minor discoursing hush itself wholly;
and only one successive rolling peal of Vive la Reine, like the
movable radiance of a train of fire-works, irradiate her path.-Ye
Immortals | She does, she beckons, turns her head this way!—
* Campan. * See Georgel.
46 MISCELLANIES.
“Does she not?” says Countess de Lamotte—Versailles, the CEil-
de-Boeuf, and all men and things are drowned in a Sea of Light;
Monseigneur and that high beckoning Head are alone, with each
other in the Universe.
O Eminence, what a beatific vision 1 Enjoy it, blest as the
gods; ruminate and re-enjoy it, with full soul: it is the last pro-
vided for thee. Too soon, in the course of these six months, shall
thy beatific vision, like Mirza's vision, gradually melt away; and
only oxen and sheep be grazing in its place;—and thou, as a
doomed Nebuchadnezzar, be grazing with them.
“Does she not ?" said the Countess de Lamotte. That it is a
habit of hers; that hardly a day passes without her doing it; this
the Countess de Lamotte did not say.
CHAPTER XIV.
The Necklace cannot be paid.
Here, then, the specially Dramaturgic labours of Countess de
Lamotte may be said to terminate. The rest of her life is Histri-
onic merely, or Histrionic and Critical; as, indeed, what had all
the former part of it been but a Hypocrisia, a more or less correct
Playing of Parts? O ‘Mrs. Facing both-ways' (as old Bunyan
said), what a talent hadst thou! No Proteus ever took so many
shapes, no Chameleon so often changed colour. One thing thou
wert to Monseigneur; another thing to Cagliostro, and Villette of
Rascaldom; a third thing to the World, in printed Mémoires; a
fourth thing to Philippe Egalité: all things to all men
Let her, however, we say, but manage now to act her own parts,
with proper Histrionic illusion; and, by Critical glosses, give her
past Dramaturgy the fit aspect, to Monseigneur and others: this
henceforth, and not new Dramaturgy, includes her whole task.
Dramatic Scenes, in plenty, will follow of themselves; especially
that Fourth and final Scene, spoken of above as by another Author,
—by Destiny itself.
For in the Lamotte Theatre, so different from our common
Pasteboard one, the Play goes on, even when the Machinist has
left it. Strange enough: those Air-images, which from her Magic-
lantern she hung out on the empty bosom of Night, have clutched
hold of this solid-seeming World (which some call the Material
World, as if that made it more a Real one), and will tumble hither
and thither the solidest masses there. Yes, reader, so goes it here
below. What thou callest a Brain-web, or mere illusive Nothing,
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 47
is it not a web of the Brain; of the Spirit which inhabits the Brain;
and which, in this World (rather, as I think, to be named the Spi-
ritual one), very naturally moves and tumbles hither and thither
all things it meets with, in Heaven or in Earth?—So too, the
Necklace, though we saw it vanish through the Horn Gate of
Dreams, and in my opinion man shall never more behold it, yet
its activity ceases not, nor will. For no Act of a man, no Thing
(how much less the man himself!) is extinguished when it disap-
pears: through considerable times it still visibly works, though
done and vanished; I have known a done thing work visibly
Three Thousand Years and more : invisibly, unrecognised, all
done things work through endless times and years. Such a Hy-
per-magical is this our poor old Real world; which some take upon
them to pronounce effete, prosaic Friend, it is thyself that art
all withered up into effete Prose, dead as ashes: know this (I ad-
vise thee); and seek passionately, with a passion little short of
desperation, to have it remedied.
Meanwhile, what will the feeling heart think to learn that Mon-
seigneur de Rohan, as we prophesied, again experiences the fickle-
ness of a Court; that, notwithstanding beatific visions, at noon
and midnight, the Queen's Majesty, with the light ingratitude of
her sex, flies off at a tangent; and, far from ousting his detested
and detesting rival, Minister Breteuil, and openly delighting to
honour Monseigneur, will hardly vouchsafe him a few gilt Auto-
graphs, and those few of the most capricious, suspicious, soul-con-
fusing tenour? What terrifico-absurd explosions, which scarcely
Cagliostro, with Caraffe and four candles, can still; how many
deep-weighed Humble Petitions, Explanations, Expostulations,
penned with fervidest eloquence, with craftiest diplomacy, all
delivered by our tutelar Countess: in vain —O Cardinal, with
what a huge iron mace, like Guy of Warwick's, thou smitest Phan-
tasms in two, which close again, take shape again; and only
thrashest the air!
One comfort, however, is that the Queen's Majesty has com-
mitted herself. The Rose of Trianon, and what may pertain
thereto, lies it not here ? That ‘ Right—Marie Antoinette of France,’
too ; and the 30th of July, first-instalment-day, coming 2 She shall
be brought to terms, good Eminence Order horses and beef-eaters
for Saverne; there, ceasing all written or oral communication,
starve her into capitulating." It is the bright May month: his
Eminence again somnambulates the Promenade de la Rose ; but
now with grim dry eyes; and, from time to time, terrifically
stamping.
! See Lamotte.
48 MISCELLANIES.
But who is this that I see mounted on costliest horse and
horse-gear; betting at Newmarket Races; though he can speak
no English word, and only some Chevalier O'Niel, some Capuchin
Macdermot, from Bar-sur-Aube, interprets his French into the dia-
lect of the Sister Island? Few days ago I observed him walking
in Fleet-street, thoughtfully through Temple-Bar;-in deep treaty
with Jeweller Jeffreys, with Jeweller Grey,' for the sale of Dia-
monds: such a lot as one may boast of. A tall handsome man ;
with ex-military whiskers; with a look of troubled gaiety, and ras-
calism : you think it is the Sieur self-styled Count de Lamotte ;
may the man himself confesses it ! The Diamonds were a present
to his Countess, from the still-bountiful Queen.
Villette too, has he completed his sales at Amsterdam 2 Him
I shall by and by behold; not betting at Newmarket, but drink-
ing wine and ardent spirits in the Taverns of Geneva. Ill-gotten
wealth endures not; Rascaldom has no strong-box. Countess de
Lamotte, for what a set of cormorant scoundrels hast thou la-
boured, art thou still labouring !
Still labouring, we may say: for as the fatal 30th of July ap-
proaches, what is to be looked for but universal Earthquake; Mud-
explosion that will blot-out the face of Nature? Methinks, stood I
in thy pattens, Dame de Lamotte, I would cut and run.-‘‘ Run' "
exclaims she, with a toss of indignant astonishment: “Calumni-
ated Innocence run ?” For it is singular how in some minds,
which are mere bottomless “chaotic whirlpools of gilt shreds,'
there is no deliberate Lying whatever; and nothing is either
believed or disbelieved, but only (with some transient suitable
Histrionic emotion) spoken and heard.
Had Dame de Lamotte a certain greatness of character, then;
at least, a strength of transcendent audacity, amounting to the
bastard-heroic 2 Great, indubitably great, is her Dramaturgic and
Histrionic talent ; but as for the rest, one must answer, with re-
luctance, No. Mrs. Facing-both-ways is a “Spark of vehement Life,’
but the farthest in the world from a brave woman : she did not, in
any case, show the bravery of a woman; did, in many cases, show
the mere screaming trepidation of one. Her grand quality is
rather to be reckoned negative: the ‘untamableness' as of a fly;
the ‘wax-cloth dress' from which so much ran down like water.
Small sparrows, as I learn, have been trained to fire cannon; but
would make poor Artillery Officers in a Waterloo. Thou dost not
call that Cork a strong swimmer? Which nevertheless shoots,
1 Grey lived in No. 13 New Bond Street; Jeffreys in Piccadilly (Rohan's
Mémoire pour: see also Count de Lamotte's Narrative, in the Mémoires Justi-
ficatifs). Rohan says, “Jeffreys bought more than 10,000l. worth.”
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 49
without hurt, the Falls of Niagara ; defies the thunderbolt itself to
sink it, for more than a moment. Without intellect, imagination,
power of attention, or any spiritual faculty, how brave were one,—
with fit motive for it, such as hunger! How much might one dare,
by the simplest of methods, by not thinking of it, not knowing it !
—Besides, is not Cagliostro, foolish blustering Quack, still here?
No scapegoat had ever broader back. The Cardinal too, has he
not money? Queen's Majesty, even in effigy, shall not be in-
sulted; the Soubises, De Marsans, and high and puissant Cousins,
must huddle the matter up : Calumniated Innocence, in the most
universal of Earthquakes, will find some crevice to whisk through,
as she has so often done.
But all this while how fares it with his Eminence, left somnam-
bulating the Promenade de la Rose ; and at times truculently stamp-
ing? Alas, ill, and ever worse. The starving method, singular as
it may seem, brings no capitulation; brings only, after a month's
waiting, our tutelary Countess, with a gilt Autograph, indeed, and
“all wrapt in silk threads, sealed where they cross,'—but which we
read with curses."
We must back again to Paris; there pen new Expostulations;
which our unwearied Countess will take charge of, but, alas, can
get no answer to. However, is not the 30th of July coming 2—
Behold, on the 19th of that month, the shortest, most careless of
Autographs: with some fifteen hundred pounds of real money in
it, to pay the—interest of the first instalment; the principal, of
some thirty thousand, not being at the moment perfectly conveni-
ent Hungry Boehmer makes large eyes at this proposal; will
accept the money, but only as part of payment; the man is posi-
tive : a Court of Justice, if no other means, shall get him the re-
mainder. What now is to be done?
Farmer-general Monsieur Saint-James, Cagliostro's disciple,
and wet with Tokay, will cheerfully advance the sum needed—for
her Majesty's sake; thinks, however (with all his Tokay), it were
good to speak with her Majesty first—I observe, meanwhile, the
distracted hungry Boehmer driven hither and thither, not by his
fixed-idea ; alas, no, but by the far more frightful ghost thereof—
since no payment is forthcoming. He stands, one day, speaking
with a Queen's waiting-woman (Madame Campan herself), in ‘a
thunder-shower, which neither of them notice,'—so thunderstruck
are they.” What weather-symptoms for his Eminence
The 30th of July has come, but no money; the 30th is gone,
but no money. O Eminence, what a grim farewell of July is this
! See Lamotte. * Campan.
WOL. IV. IE
50 MISCELLANIES.
of 1785 ! The last July went out with airs from Heaven, and Tri-
anon Roses. These August days, are they not worse than dog's
days; worthy to be blotted out from all Almanacs 2 Boehmer and
Bassange thou canst still see; but only ‘return from them swear-
ing.” Nay, what new misery is this? Our tutelary Histrionic
Countess enters, distraction in her eyes:” she has just been at
Versailles; the Queen's Majesty, with a levity of caprice which we
dare not trust ourselves to characterise, declares plainly that she
will deny ever having got the Necklace; ever having had, with his
Eminence, any transaction whatsoever!—Mud-explosion without
parallel in volcanic annals.-The Palais de Strasbourg appears to
be beset with spies; the Lamottes, for the Count too is here, are
packing-up for Bar-sur-Aube. The Sieur Boehmer, has he fallen
insane? Or into communication with Minister Breteuil 2—
And so, distractedly and distractively, to the sound of all Dis-
cords in Nature, opens that Fourth, final Scenic Exhibition, com-
posed by Destiny.
CHAPTER XV.
Scene Fourth: by Destiny.
It is Assumption-day, the 15th of August. Don thy pontifica-
lia, Grand-Almoner; crush down these hideous temporalities out
of sight. In any case, smooth thy countenance into some sort of
lofty-dissolute serene; thou hast a thing they call worshipping
God to enact, thyself the first actor.
The Grand-Almoner has done it. He is in Versailles CEil-de-
Baeuf Gallery; where male and female Peerage, and all Noble
France in gala various and glorious as the rainbow, waits only the
signal to begin worshipping: on the serene of his lofty-dissolute
countenance, there can nothing be read.” By Heaven he is sent
for to the Royal Apartment 4.
He returns with the old lofty-dissolute look, inscrutably serene :
has his turn for favour actually come, then? Those fifteen long
years of soul's travail are to be rewarded by a birth ?—Monsieur
le Baron de Breteuil issues; great in his pride of place, in this the
crowning moment of his life. With one radiant glance, Breteuil
summons the Officer on Guard; with another, fixes Monseigneur:
* Lamotte. 2 Georgel.
* This is Bette d'Etienville's description of him : ‘A handsome man, of
‘ fifty; with high complexion; hair white-gray, and the front of the head bald:
‘ of high stature ; carriage noble and easy, though burdened with a certain
‘ degree of corpulency; who, I never doubted, was Monsieur de Rohan.” (First
Mémoire pow!".)
THE DIAMOND NECRI.ACE. 51
“De par le Roi, Monseigneur: you are arrested! At your risk, Offi-
cer!"—Curtains as of pitch-black whirlwind envelop Monseigneur;
whirl off with him, -to outer darkness. Versailles Gallery ex-
plodes aghast; as if Guy Fawkes's Plot had burst under it. “The
Queen's Majesty was weeping,” whisper some. There will be no
Assumption-service; or such a one as was never celebrated since
Assumption came in fashion.
Europe, then, shall ring with it from side to side —But why
rides that Heyduc as if all the Devils drove him 2 It is Monseig-
neur's Heyduc : Monseigneur spoke three words in German to
him, at the door of his Versailles Hotel; even handed him a slip
of writing, which, with borrowed Pencil, ‘in his red square cap,'
he had managed to prepare on the way thither." To Paris To
the Palais-Cardinall The horse dies on reaching the stable; the
Heyduc swoons on reaching the cabinet: but his slip of writing
fell from his hand; and I (says the Abbé Georgel) was there. The
red Portfolio, containing all the gilt Autographs, is burnt utterly,
with much else, before Breteuil can arrive for apposition of the
seals —Whereby Europe, in ringing from side to side, must worry
itself with guessing: and at this hour, on this paper, sees the
matter in such an interesting clear-obscure.
Soon Count Cagliostro and his Seraphic Countess go to join
Monseigneur, in State Prison. In few days, follows Dame de La-
motte, from Bar-sur-Aube; Demoiselle d’Oliva by-and-by, from
Brussels ; Villette-de-Rétaux, from his Swiss retirement, in the
taverns of Geneva. The Bastille opens its iron bosom to them
all.
CHAPTER LAST.
Missa est.
Thus, then, the Diamond Necklace having, on the one hand,
vanished through the Horn Gate of Dreams, and so, under the
pincers of Nisus Lamotte and Euryalus Villette, lost its sublunary
individuality and being; and, on the other hand, all that trafficked
in it, sitting now safe under lock and key, that justice may take
cognisance of them,-our engagement in regard to the matter is
on the point of terminating. That extraordinary ‘Procès du Collier,
Necklace Trial,' spinning itself through Nine other ever-memor-
able Months, to the astonishment of the hundred and eighty-
seven assembled Parlementiers, and of all Quidnuncs, Journalists,
Anecdotists, Satirists, in both Hemispheres, is, in every sense, a
| Georgel.
52 MISCELLANIES.
“Celebrated Trial,' and belongs to Publishers of such. How, by
innumerable confrontations and expiscatory questions, through
entanglements, doublings and windings that fatigue eye and soul,
this most involute of Lies is finally winded off to the scandalous-
ridiculous cinder-heart of it, let others relate.
Meanwhile, during these Nine ever-memorable Months, till they
terminate late at night precisely with the May of 1786, how many
fugitive leaves, quizzical, imaginative, or at least mendacious,
were flying about in Newspapers; or stitched together as Pamph-
lets; and what heaps of others were left creeping in Manuscript,
we shall not say;-having, indeed, no complete Collection of them,
and what is more to the purpose, little to do with such Collection.
Nevertheless, searching for some fit Capital of the composite
order, to adorn adequately the now finished singular Pillar of our
Narrative, what can suit us better than the following, so far as we
know, yet unedited,
Occasional Discourse, by Count Alessandro Cagliostro, Thaumaturgist,
Prophet and Arch-Quack; delivered in the Bastille: Year of Lucifer,
5789; of the Mahometan Hegira from Mecca, 1201; of the Caglios-
tric Hegira from Palermo, 24; of the Vulgar Era, 1785.
* Fellow Scoundrels, An unspeakable Intrigue, spun from the
“soul of that Circe-Megaera, by our voluntary or involuntary help,
‘has assembled us all, if not under one roof tree, yet within one
‘grim iron-bound ring-wall. For an appointed number of months,
‘in the ever-rolling flow of Time, we, being gathered from the
‘ four winds, did by Destiny work together in body corporate ;
‘ and, joint labourers in a Transaction already famed over the
“Globe, obtain unity of Name, like the Argonauts of old, as Con-
‘querors of the Diamond Necklace. Erelong it is done (for ring-walls
‘hold not captive the free Scoundrel forever); and we disperse
‘again, over wide terrestrial Space; some of us, it may be, over
‘the very marches of Space. Our Act hangs indissoluble toge-
‘ther; floats wondrous in the older and older memory of men:
‘while we the little band of Scoundrels, who saw each other, now
‘ hover so far asunder, to see each other no more, if not once more
‘ only on the universal Doomsday, the Last of the Days
“In such interesting moments, while we stand within the verge
of parting, and have not yet parted, methinks it were well here,
‘in these sequestered Spaces, to institute a few general reflections.
* Me, as a public speaker, the Spirit of Masonry, of Philosophy,
1 On the 31st of May 1786, sentence was pronounced: about ten at night,
the Cardinal got out of the Bastille; large mobs hurrahing round him,-out of
spleen to the Court. (See Georgel.)
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 53
&
&
&
6
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
4
6.
&
&
&
4.
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
£
and Philanthropy, and even of Prophecy, blowing mysterious
from the Land of Dreams, impels to do it. Give ear, O Fellow
Scoundrels, to what the Spirit utters; treasure it in your hearts,
practise it in your lives.
‘Sitting here, penned-up in this which, with a slight meta-
phor, I call the Central Cloaca of Nature, where a tyrannical De
Launay can forbid the bodily eye free vision, you with the mental
eye see but the better. This Central Cloaca, is it not rather a
Heart, into which, from all regions, mysterious conduits intro-
duce and forcibly inject whatsoever is choicest in the Scoundrel-
ism of the Earth; there to be absorbed, or again (by the other
auricle) ejected into new circulation ? Let the eye of the mind
run along this immeasurable venous-arterial system; and astound
itself with the magnificent extent of Scoundreldom ; the deep, I
may say, unfathomable, significance of Scoundrelism.
‘Yes, brethren, wide as the Sun's range is our Empire; wider
than old Rome's in its palmiest era. I have in my time been
far; in frozen Muscovy, in hot Calabria, east, west, wheresoever
the sky overarches civilised man : and never hitherto saw I
myself an alien ; out of Scoundreldom I never was. Is it not
even said, from of old, by the opposite party: “All men are
liars?” Do they not (and this nowise “in haste") whimperingly
talk of “one just person” (as they call him), and of the remain-
ing thousand save one that take part with us? So decided is
our majority.’—(Applause.)
‘Of the Scarlet Woman,—yes, Monseigneur, without offence,—
of the Scarlet Woman that sits on Seven Hills, and her Black
Jesuit Militia, out foraging from Pole to Pole, I speak not ; for
the story is too trite: nay, the Militia itself, as I see, begins to
be disbanded, and invalided, for a second treachery; treachery
to herself! Nor yet of Governments; for a like reason. Ambas-
sadors, said an English punster, lie abroad for their masters.
Their masters, we answer, lie at home for themselves. Not of
all this, nor of Courtship with its Lovers'-vows, nor Courtiership,
nor Attorneyism, nor Public Oratory, and Selling by Auction, do
I speak: I simply ask the gainsayer, Which is the particular
trade, profession, mystery, calling, or pursuit of the Sons of
Adam that they successfully manage in the other way? He can-
not answer —No : Philosophy itself, both practical and even
speculative, has at length, after shamefullest groping, stumbled
on the plain conclusion that Sham is indispensable to Reality,
as Lying to Living; that without Lying the whole business of
the world, from swaying of senates to selling of tapes, must ex-
plode into anarchic discords, and so a speedy conclusion ensue.
54 MISCELLANIES,
“But the grand problem, Fellow Scoundrels, as you well know,
‘Is the marrying of Truth and Sham; so that they become one
‘flesh, man and wife, and generate these three: Profit, Pudding,
and Respectability that always keeps her Gig. Wondrously, in-
deed, do Truth and Delusion play into one another; Reality rests
on Dream. Truth is but the skin of the bottomless Untrue: and
ever, from time to time, the Untrue sheds it; is clear again; and
the superannuated True itself becomes a Fable. Thus do all
hostile things crumble back into our Empire; and of its increase
there is no end.
‘O brothers, to think of the Speech without meaning (which
is mostly ours), and of the Speech with contrary meaning (which
is wholly ours), manufactured by the organs of Mankind in one
solar day ! Or call it a day of Jubilee, when public Dinners are
given, and Dinner-orations are delivered: or say, a Neighbouring
Island in time of General Election 1 O ye immortal gods ! The
mind is lost; can only admire great Nature's plentedusness with
a kind of Sacred wonder. -
‘For tell me, What is the chief end of man? “To glorify God,”
said the old Christian Sect, now happily extinct. “To eat and
find eatables by the readiest method,” answers sound Philoso-
phy, discarding whims. If the method readier than this of per-
suasive-attraction is yet discovered,—point it out !—Brethren, I
said the old Christian Sect was happily extinct : as, indeed, in
Rome itself, there goes the wonderfullest traditionary Prophecy,"
of that Nazareth Christ coming back, and being crucified a
second time there; which truly I see not in the least how he
could fail to be. Nevertheless, that old Christian whim, of an
actual living and ruling God, and some sacred covenant binding
all men in Him, with much other mystic stuff, does, under new
or old shape, linger with a few. From these few keep yourselves
forever far ! They must even be left to their whim, which is not
like to prove infectious.
“But neither are we, my Fellow Scoundrels, without our Re-
ligion, our Worship; which, like the oldest, and all true Wor-
ships, is one of Fear. The Christians have their Cross, the
Moslem their Crescent: but have not we too our—Gallows 2
Yes, infinitely terrible is the Gallows; it bestrides with its pati-
bulary fork the Pit of bottomless Terror | No Manicheans are
we; our God is One. Great, exceeding great, I say, is the Gal-
lows; of old, even from the beginning, in this world; knowing
neither variableness nor decadence; forever, forever, over the
wreck of ages, and all civic and ecclesiastic convulsions, meal-
* Goethe mentions it (Italiánische Reise).
&
{
$
&
§
&
6
ſ
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
$
t
&
6
&
{
&
&
&
&
&
&
&
{
&
é
&
&
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 55
‘ mobs, revolutions, the Gallows with front serenely terrible towers
‘ aloft. Fellow Scoundrels, fear the Gallows, and have no other
‘ fear ! This is the Law and the Prophets. Fear every emanation
of the Gallows. And what is every buffet, with the fist, or even
with the tongue, of one having authority, but some such emana-
tion ? And what is Force of Public Opinion but the infinitude
of such emanations,—rushing combined on you, like a mighty
storm-wind? Fear the Gallows, I say ! O when, with its long
black arm, it has clutched a man, what avail him all terrestrial
things? These pass away, with horrid nameless dinning in his
ears; and the ill-starred Scoundrel pendulates between Heaven
and Earth, a thing rejected of both.'—(Profound sensation.)
‘Such, so wide in compass, high, gallows-high in dignity, is
the Scoundrel Empire; and for depth, it is deeper than the
Foundations of the World. For what was Creation itself wholly,
according to the best Philosophers, but a Divulsion by the TIME-
• SPIRIT (or Devil so-called); a forceful Interruption, or breaking
asunder, of the old Quiescence of Eternity? It was Lucifer that
fell, and made this lordly World arise. Deep 2 It is bottomless-
deep; the very Thought, diving, bobs up from it baffled. Is not
• this that they call Vice of Lying the Adam-Kadmon, or primeval
Rude-Element, old as Chaos mother's-womb of Death and Hell;
whereon their thin film of Virtue, Truth, and the like, poorly
‘ wavers—for a day ? All Virtue, what is it, even by their own
showing, but Vice transformed,—that is, manufactured, rendered
artificial? “Man's Vices are the roots from which his Virtues
grow out and see the light,” says one : “Yes,” add I, “and thank-
lessly steal their nourishment " Were it not for the nine hun-
dred ninety and nine unacknowledged, perhaps martyred and
calumniated Scoundrels, how were their single Just Person (with
‘ a murrain on him () so much as possible 2–Oh, it is high, high :
‘these things are too great for me; Intellect, Imagination, flags
‘ her tired wings; the soul lost, baffled’—
—Here Dame de Lamotte tittered audibly, and muttered Coq-
d'Inde, which, being interpreted into the Scottish tongue, signifies
Bubbly-Jock 1 The Arch-Quack, whose eyes were turned inwards
as in rapt contemplation, started at the titter and mutter: his
eyes flashed outwards with dilated pupil; his nostrils opened
wide ; his very hair seemed to stir in its long twisted pigtails (his
fashion of curl); and as Indignation is said to make Poetry, it
here made Prophecy, or what sounded as such. With terrible,
working features, and gesticulation not recommended in any Book
of Gesture, the Arch-Quack, in voice supernally discordant, like
Lions worrying Bulls of Bashan, began :
$
{
$
6
t
ſº
{
{
&
&
&
{
{
&
{
$
&
{
56 MISCELLAN IES.
‘Sniff not, Dame de Lamotte; tremble, thou foul Circe-Me-
‘gaera; thy day of desolation is at hand 1 Behold ye the Sanhe-
‘drim of Judges, with their fanners of written Parchment, loud-
“rustling, as they winnow all her chaff and down-plumage, and
‘she stands there naked and mean 2—Willette, Oliva, do ye blab
‘secrets? Ye have no pity of her extreme need ; she none of
‘yours. Is thy light-giggling, untamable heart at last heavy 2
‘Hark ye | Shrieks of one cast out; whom they brand on both
‘shoulders with iron stamp ; the red-hot “W,” thou Voleuse, hath
“it entered thy soul? Weep, Circe de Lamotte; wail there in
‘truckle-bed, and hysterically gnash thy teeth : nay do, smother
‘thyself in thy door mat coverlid; thou hast found thy mates;
‘ thou art in the Salpêtrière —Weep, daughter of the high and
‘puissant Sans-inexpressibles 1 Buzz of Parisian Gossipry is
‘ about thee; but not to help thee: no, to eat before thy time.
‘What shall a King's Court do with thee, thou unclean thing,
‘while thou yet livest? Escape | Flee to utmost countries; hide
‘there, if thou canst, thy mark of Cain —In the Babylon of Fog-
‘land Ha! is that my London 2 See I Judas Iscariot Egalité?
‘Print, yea print abundantly the abominations of your two hearts:
‘ breath of rattlesnakes can bedim the steel mirror, but only for a
‘time.—And there ! Ay, there at last ! Tumblest thou from the
‘lofty leads, poverty-stricken, O thriftless daughter of the high
‘ and puissant, escaping bailiffs 2 Descendest thou precipitate,
‘in dead night, from window in the third story; hurled forth by
“Bacchanals, to whom thy shrill tongue had grown unbearable?'
* Yea, through the smoke of that new Babylon thou fallest head-
‘ long; one long scream of screams makes night hideous: thou
‘liest there, shattered like addle egg, “nigh to the Temple of
* Flora !” O Lamotte, has thy Hypocrisia ended, then 2 Thy
‘many characters were all acted. Here at last thou actest riot,
“but art what thou seemest: a mangled squelch of gore, confusion
‘and abomination; which men huddle underground, with no
‘ burial-stone. Thou gallows-carrion l'—
—Here the prophet turned up his nose (the broadest of the
eighteenth century), and opened wide his nostrils with such a
greatness of disgust, that all the audience, even Lamotte herself,
sympathetically imitated him.—‘O Dame de Lamotte Dame de
‘Lamotte . Now, when the circle of thy existence lies complete;
| The English Translator of Lamotte's Life says, she fell from the leads of
her house. nigh the Temple of Flora, endeavouring to escape seizure for debt;
and was taken up so much hurt that she died in consequence. Another report
runs that she was flung out of window, as in the Cagliostric text One way or
other she did die, on the 23d of August 1791 (Biographie Universelle, xxx. 287).
Where the ‘Temple of Flora’ was, or is, one knows not.
THE TIAMOND NECKLACE. 57
‘ and my eye glances over these two score and three years that
“were lent thee, to do evil as thou couldst; and I behold thee a
“bright-eyed little Tatterdemalion, begging and gathering sticks in
‘the Bois de Boulogne; and also at length a squelched Putrefac-
‘tion, here on London pavements; with the headdressings and
“hungerings, the gaddings and hysterical gigglings that came be-
‘tween, what shall I say was the meaning of thee at all? —
‘Villette-de-Rétaux Have the catchpoles trepanned thee, by
‘sham of battle, in thy Tavern, from the sacred Republican soil”
‘It is thou that wert the hired Forger of Handwritings 2 Thou
‘wilt confess it? Depart, unwhipt yet accursed.—Ha! The dread
‘Symbol of our Faith ? Swings aloft, on the Castle of St. Angelo, a
* Pendulous Mass, which I think I discern to be the body of Wil-
“lette | There let him end ; the sweet morsel of our Juggernaut.
‘Nay, weep not thou, disconsolate Oliva; blear not thy bright
‘blue eyes, daughter of the shady Garden Thee shall the San-
‘ hedrim not harm : this Cloaca of Nature emits thee; as nota-
‘ blest of unfortunate-females, thou shalt have choice of husbands
‘ not without capital; and accept one.” Know this; for the vision
‘ of it is true.
“But the Anointed Majesty whom ye profaned 2 Blow, spirit
‘ of Egyptian Masonry, blow aside the thick curtains of Space |
“Lo you, her eyes are red with their first tears of pure bitterness;
‘not with their last. Tirewoman Campan is choosing, from the
‘ Print-shops of the Quais, the reputed-best among the hundred
‘likenesses of Circe de Lamotte :” a Queen shall consider if the
* basest of women ever, by any accident, darkened daylight or can-
‘dle-light for the highest. The Portrait answers: Never!"—(Sen-
sation in the audience.)
‘–Ha! What is this 3 Angels, Uriel, Anachiel, and ye other
‘ five; Pentagon of Rejuvenescence ; Power that destroyedst Ori-
1 See Georgel, and Villette's Mémoire.
* In the Affaire du Collier is this Ms. Note: “Gay d’Oliva, a common-girl
‘ of the Palais-Royal, who was chosen to play a part in this Business, got mar-
‘ried, some years afterwards, to one Beausire, an Ex. Noble, formerly attached
‘ to the d'Artois Household. In 1790, he was Captain of the National Guard
* Company of the Temple. He then retired to Choisy, and managed to be
‘ named Procureur of that Commune : he finally employed himself in drawing-
‘ up Lists of Proscription in the Luxembourg Prison, when he played the part
‘ of informer (mouton). See Tableau des Prisons de Paris sous Robespierre.'
These details are correct. In the Mémoires sur les Prisons (new Title of the
Book just referred to), ii. 171, we find this: ‘The second Denouncer was Beau-
‘ sire, an Ex-Noble, known under the old government for his intrigues. To
‘ give an idea of him, it is enough to say that he married the d’Oliva,’ &c., as
in the Ms. Note already given. Finally is added: ‘He was the main spy of
* Boyenval; who, however, said that he made use of him ; but that Fouquier-
‘Tinyille did not like him, and would have him guillotined in good time.’
* See Campan.
58 MISCELLANIES.
{
ginal Sin; Earth, Heaven, and thou Outer Limbo which men
“name Hell! Does the EMPIRE of IMPOSTURE waver ? Burst
there, in starry sheen, updarting, Light-rays from out its dark
foundations; as it rocks and heaves, not in travail-throes, but in
death-throes? Yea, Light-rays, piercing, clear, that Salute the
Heavens,—lo, they kindle it; their starry clearness becomes as
red Hell-fire ! IMPOSTURE is in flames, Imposture is burnt up :
one Red-sea of Fire, wild-billowing enwraps the World; with its
fire-tongue licks at the very Stars. Thrones are hurled into it,
and Dubois Mitres, and Prebendal Stalls that drop fatness, and
—ha! what see I?—all the Gigs of Creation: all, all ! Woe is
me ! Never since Pharaoh's Chariots, in the Red-sea of water,
was there wreck of Wheel-vehicles like this in the sea of Fire.
Desolate, as ashes, as gases, shall they wander in the wind.
* Higher, higher yet flames the Fire-Sea; crackling with new
dislocated timber; hissing with leather and prunella. The metal
‘Images are molten ; the marble Images become mortar-lime; the
stone Mountains sulkily explode. RESPECTABILITY, with all her
collected Gigs inflamed for funeral pyre, wailing, leaves the
Earth : not to return save under new Avatar. Imposture, how it
burns, through generations: how it is burnt up—for a time.
• The World is black ashes; which, ah, when will they grow
green 2 The Images all run into amorphous Corinthian brass;
all Dwellings of men destroyed; the very mountains peeled and
riven, the valleys black and dead : it is an empty World ! Woe
‘ to them that shall be born then A King, a Queen (ah me !)
were hurled in ; did rustle once; flew aloft, crackling, like paper-
scroll. Oliva's Husband was hurled in ; Iscariot Egalité; thou
‘grim De Launay, with thy grim Bastille ; whole kindreds and
‘peoples; five millions of mutually destroying Men. For it is the
‘End of the Dominion of IMPOSTURE (which is Darkness and opaque
* Firedamp); and the burning-up, with unquenchable fire, of all
‘the Gigs that are in the Earth !’—Here the Prophet paused,
fetching a deep sigh ; and the Cardinal uttered a kind of faint,
tremulous Hem
‘ Mourn not, O Monseigneur, spite of thy nephritic cholic and
‘many infirmities. For thee mercifully it was not unto death."
“O Monseigneur (for thou hadst a touch of goodness), who would
‘ not weep over thee, if he also laughed ? Behold ! The not too
‘judicious Historian, that long years hence, amid remotest wilder-
&
&
&
&
&
{
&
{
6
{
{
&
&
&
$
{
&
{
&
&
&
1 Rohan was elected of the Constituent Assembly; and even got a compli-
ment or two in it, as Court-victim, from here and there a man of weak judg-
ment. He was one of the first who, recalcitrating against ‘Civil Constitution
of the Clergy’ &c., took himself across the Rhine.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. 59
' nesses, writes thy Life, and names thee Mud-volcano ; even he
“shall reflect that it was thy Life this same ; thy only chance
‘through whole Eternity; which thou (poor gambler) hast ex-
‘pended so : and, even over his hard heart, a breath of dewy pity
‘ for thee shall blow.—O Monseigneur, thou wert not all ignoble :
‘thy Mud volcano was but strength dislocated, fire misapplied.
‘Thou wentest ravening through the world; no Life-elixir or Stone
‘ of the Wise could we two (for want of funds) discover : a foulest
“Circe undertook to fatten thee; and thou hadst to fill thy belly
‘with the east wind. And burst 2 By the Masonry of Enoch,
* No 1 Behold, has not thy Jesuit Familiar his Scouts dim-flying
“over the deep of human things 2 Cleared art thou of crime, save
‘ that of fixed-idea ; weepest, a repentant exile, in the Mountains
‘ of Auvergne. Neither shall the Red Fire-sea itself consume thee;
‘ only consume thy Gig, and, instead of Gig (O rich exchange ),
‘ restore thy Self. Safe beyond the Rhine-stream, thou livest
‘peaceful days; Savest many from the fire, and anointest their
‘Smarting burns. Sleep finally, in thy mother's bosom, in a good
‘old age l'—The Cardinal gave a sort of guttural murmur, or gur-
gle, which ended in a long sigh.
“O Horrors, as ye shall be called,’ again burst forth the Quack,
‘why have ye missed the Sieur de Lamotte; why not of him, too,
‘made gallows-carrion ? Will spear, or swordstick, thrust at him
‘ (or supposed to be thrust), through window of hackney-coach, in
‘ Piccadilly of the Babylon of Fog, where he jolts disconsolate, not
‘let out the imprisoned animal existence? Is he poisoned, too?"
‘Poison will not kill the Sieur Lamotte; nor steel, nor massacres.”
‘Let him drag his utterly superfluous life to a second and a third
‘generation ; and even admit the not too judicious Historian to
‘see his face before he die.
* See Lamotte's Narrative (Mémoires Justificatifs).
* Lamotte, after his wife's death, had returned to Paris; and been arrested,
—not for building churches. The Sentence of the old Parlement against him,
in regard to the Necklace Business, he gets annulled by the new Courts; but
is, nevertheless, ‘retained in confinement' (Moniteur Newspaper, 7th August
1792). He was still in Prison at the time the September Massacre broke out.
From Maton de la Varenne we cite the following grim passage: Maton is in
La Force Prison.
“At one in the morning' (of Monday, September 3), writes Maton, “the
‘grate that led to our quarter was again opened. Four men in uniform, hold-
‘ing each a naked sabre and blazing torch, mounted to our corridor; a turn-
“key showing the way; and entered a room close on ours, to investigate a box,
‘which they broke open. This done, they halted in the gallery; and began
‘ interrogating one Cuissa, to know where Lamotte was ; who, they said, un-
‘der pretext of finding a treasure, which they should share in, had swindled
“one of them out of 300 livres, having asked him to dinner for that purpose.
“The wretched Cuissa, whom they had in their power, and who lost his life
‘that night, answered, all trembling, that he remembered the fact well, but
60 MISCELIANIES.
“But, ha!' cried he, and stood wide-staring, horror-struck, as
if some Cribb's fist had knocked the wind out of him : ‘O horror
‘ of horrors Is it not Myself I see ? Roman Inquisition | Long
‘months of cruel baiting ! Life of Giuseppe Balsamo 1 Cagliostro's
* Body still lying in St. Leo Castle, his Self fled—whither 3 By-
‘standers wag their heads, and say: “The Brow of Brass, behold
“how it has got all unlackered; these Pinchbeck lips can lie no
‘more 1” Eheu ! Ohoo!'—And he burst into unstanchable blub-
bering of tears; and sobbing out the moanfullest broken howl,
sank down in swoon ; to be put to bed by De Launay and others.
Thus spoke (or thus might have spoken), and prophesied, the
Arch-Quack Cagliostro: and truly much better than he ever else
did: for not a jot or tittle of it (save only that of our promised In-
terview with Nestor de Lamotte, which looks unlikelier than ever,
for we have not heard of him, dead or living, since 1826)—but has
turned out to be literally true. As indeed, in all this History, one
jot or tittle of untruth, that we could render true, is perhaps not
discoverable; much as the distrustful reader may have disbelieved.
Here, then, our little labour ends. The Necklace was, and is
no more : the stones of it again ‘ circulate in Commerce, some of
them perhaps in Rundle's at this hour; and may give rise to what
other Histories we know not. The Conquerors of it, every one
that trafficked in it, have they not all had their due, which was
Death 2
This little Business, like a little cloud, bodied itself forth in
skies clear to the unobservant: but with such hues of deep-tinted
villany, dissoluteness and general delirium as, to the observant,
betokened it electric ; and wise men, a Goethe for example, boded
Earthquakes. Has not the Earthquake come?
“could not say what had become of the prisoner. Resolute to find this Lamotte
‘ and confront him with Cuissa, they ascended into other rooms, and made far-
‘ther rummaging there; but apparently without effect, for I heard them say
* to one another: “Come, search among the corpses, then ; for, Wom de
* Diew / we must know what is become of him.”’ (Ma Résurrection, par
Maton de la Varenne; reprinted in the Histoire Parlementaire, xviii. 142.)—
Lamotte lay in the Bicêtre Prison; but had got out, precisely in the nick of
time, and dived beyond soundings.
61
MIRA.BEAU.l
[1837.]
A PRover B says, “The house that is a-building looks not as the
house that is built.' Environed with rubbish and mortar-heaps,
with scaffold-poles, hodmen, dust-clouds, some rudiments only of
the thing that is to be, can, to the most observant, disclose them-
selves through the mean tumult of the thing that hitherto is. How
true is this same with regard to all works and facts whatsoever in
our world; emphatically true in regard to the highest fact and work
which our world witnesses, the Life of what we call an Original
Man. Such a man is one not made altogether by the common pat-
term; one whose phases and goings-forth cannot be prophesied of,
even approximately; though, indeed, by their very newness and
strangeness they most of all provoke prophecy. A man of this
kind, while he lives on earth, is “unfolding himself out of nothing
into something,’ surely under very complex conditions: he is draw-
ing continually towards him, in continual succession and variation,
the materials of his structure, may his very plan of it, from the
whole realm of Accident, you may say, and from the whole realm
of Freewill: he is building his life together in this manner; a guess
and a problem as yet, not to others only but to himself. Hence
such criticism by the bystanders; loud no-knowledge, loud mis-
knowledge It is like the opening of the Fisherman's Casket in
the Arabian Tale, this beginning and growing-up of a life: vague
smoke wavering hither and thither; some features of a Genie loom-
ing through; of the ultimate shape of which no fisherman or man
can judge. And yet, as we say, men do judge, and pass provisional
sentence, being forced to it; you can predict with what accuracy 1
‘Look at the audience in a theatre,’ says one : ‘the life of a man is
‘there compressed within five-hours duration; is transacted on
“an open stage, with lighted lamps, and what the fittest words and
“art of genius can do to make the spirit of it clear; yet listen, when
| LONDON AND WESTMINSTER REVIEW, No. 8.—Mémoires biographiques,
bittéraires et politiques de Mirabeau : écrits par lui-même, par son Père, son
Oncle et son Fils Adoptif (Memoirs, biographical, literary and political, of
Mirabeau; written by himself, by his Father, his Uncle and his Adopted Son).
8 vols. 8vo. Paris, 1834-36.
62 MISCELLANIES.
‘the curtain falls, what a discerning public will say of that!' And
now, if the drama extended over threescore and ten years; and
were enacted, not with a view to clearness, but rather indeed with
a view to concealment, often in the deepest attainable involution
of obscurity; and your discerning public, occupied otherwise, cast
its eye on the business now here for a moment, and then there for
a moment 2 Woe to him, answer we, who has no court of appeal
against the world's judgment He is a doomed man: doomed by
conviction to hard penalties; nay purchasing acquittal (too pro-
bably) by a still harder penalty, that of being a triviality, Super-
ficiality, self-advertiser, and partial or total quack, which is the
hardest penalty of all.
But suppose farther, that the man, as we said, was an original
man; that his life-drama would not and could not be measured by
the three unities alone, but partly by a rule of its own too: still
farther, that the transactions he had mingled in were great and
world-dividing; that of all his judges there were not one who had
not something to love him for unduly, to hate him for unduly
Alas, is it not precisely in this case, where the whole world is
promptest to judge, that the whole world is likeliest to be wrong;
natural opacity being so doubly and trebly darkened by accidental
difficulty and perversion? The crabbed moralist had some show
of reason who said: To judge of an original contemporary man,
you must, in general, reverse the world's judgment about him ;
the world is not only wrong on that matter, but cannot on any
such matter be right.
One comfort is, that the world is ever working itself righter and
righter on such matters; that a continual revisal and rectification
of the world's first judgment on them is inevitably going on. For,
after all, the world loves its original men, and can in no wise for-
get them; not till after a long while; sometimes not till after thou-
sands of years. Forgetting them, what, indeed, should it remem-
ber? The world's wealth is its original men; by these and their
works it is a world and not a waste: the memory and record of
what MEN it bore—this is the sum of its strength, its sacred “pro-
perty forever, whereby it upholds itself, and steers forward, better
or worse, through the yet undiscovered deep of Time. All know-
ledge, all art, all beautiful or precious possession of existence, is, in
the longrun, this, or connected with this. Science itself, is it not
under one of its most interesting aspects, Biography; is it not the
Record of the Work which an original man, still named by us, or
not now named, was blessed by the heavens to do? That Sphere-
and-cylinder is the monument and abbreviated history of the man
Archimedes; not to be forgotten, probably, till the world itself
MIRA.BEAU. 63
vanish. Of Poets, and what they have done, and how the world
loves them, let us, in these days, very singular in respect of that
Art, say nothing, or next to nothing. The greatest modern of the
poetic guild has already said: ‘Nay, if thou wilt have it, who but
‘the poet first formed gods for us, brought them down to us,
‘ raised us up to them?'
Another remark, on a lower scale, not unworthy of notice, is by
Jean Paul: that ‘as in art, so in conduct, or what we call morals,
‘ before there can be an Aristotle with his critical canons, there
‘must be a Homer, many Homers with their heroic performances.’
In plainer words, the original man is the true creator (or call him
revealer) of Morals too: it is from his example that precepts enough
are derived, and written down in books and systems: he properly
is the thing; all that follows after is but talk about the thing, better
or worse interpretation of it, more or less wearisome and ineffectual
discourse of logic on it. A remark this of Jean Paul's which, well
meditated, may seem one of the most pregnant lately written on
these matters. If any man had the ambition of building a new
system of morals (not a promising enterprise, at this time of day),
there is no remark known to us which might better serve him as a
chief corner-stone, whereon to found, and to build, high enough,
nothing doubting;—high, for instance, as the Christian Gospel
itself. And to whatever other heights man's destiny may yet carry
him! Consider whether it was not, from the first, by example, or
say rather by human exemplars, and such reverent imitation or
abhorrent aversion and avoidance as these gave rise to, that man's
duties were made indubitable to him 2 Also, if it is not yet, in
these last days, by very much the same means (example, precept,
prohibition, “force of public opinion,' and other forcings and induc-
ings), that the like result is brought about; and, from the Wool-
sack down to the Treadmill, from Almack's to Chalk Farm and the
west-end of Newgate, the incongruous whirlpool of life is forced
and induced to whirl with some attempt at regularity? The two
Mosaic Tables were of simple limited stone; no logic appended to
them: we, in our days, are privileged with Logic, - Systems of
Morals, Professors of Moral Philosophy, Theories of Moral Senti-
ment, Utilities, Sympathies, Moral Senses, not a few ; useful for
those that feel comfort in them. But to the observant eye, is it not
still plain that the rule of man's life rests not very steadily on logic
(rather carries logic unsteadily resting on it, as an excuse, an expo-
sition, or ornamental solacement to oneself and others); that ever,
as of old, the thing a man will do is the thing he feels commanded
to do: of which command, again, the origin and reasonableness
remains often as good as indemonstrable by logic; and, indeed, lies
64 MISCELLANIES.
mainly in this, That it has been demonstrated otherwise and bet-
ter; by experiment, namely; that an experimental (what we name
original) man has already done it, and we have seen it to be good
and reasonable, and now know it to be so once and forevermore ?
—Enough of this.
He were a sanguine individual surely that should turn to the
French Revolution for new rules of conduct, and creators or ex-
emplars of morality,+except, indeed, exemplars of the gibbeted
in-terrorem sort. A greater work, it is often said, was never done
in the world's history by men so small. Twenty-five millions (say
these severe critics) are hurled forth out of all their old habitudes,
arrangements, harnessings and garnitures, into the new, quite void
arena and career of Sansculottism; there to show what originality
is in them. Fanfaronading and gesticulation, vehemence, effer-
vescence, heroic desperation, they do show in abundance; but of
what one can call originality, invention, natural stuff or character,
amazingly little. Their heroic desperation, such as it was, we will
honour and even venerate, as a new document (call it rather a re-
newal of that primeval ineffaceable document and charter) of the
manhood of man. But, for the rest, there were Federations; there
were Festivals of Fraternity, “the Statue of Nature pouring water
from her two mammelles,' and the august Deputies all drinking
of it from the same iron saucer; Weights and Measures were at-
tempted to be changed; the Months of the Year became Pluviose,
Thermidor, Messidor (till Napoleon said, Il faudra se débarrasser
de ce Messidor, One must get this Messidor sent about its business):
also Mrs. Momoro and others rode prosperous, as Goddesses of
Reason; and then, these being mostly guillotined, Mahomet Ro-
bespierre did, with bouquet in hand, and in new black breeches,
in front of the Tuileries, pronounce the scraggiest of prophetic
discourses on the Etre Suprême, and set fire to much emblematic
pasteboard —all this, and an immensity of such, the Twenty-five
millions did devise and accomplish; but (apart from their heroic
desperation, which was no miracle either, beside that of the old
Dutch, for instance) this, and the like of this, was almost all.
Their arena of Sansculottism was the most original arena opened
to man for above a thousand years; and they, at bottom, were
unexpectedly commonplace in it. Exaggerated commonplace,
triviality run distracted, and a kind of universal “Frenzy of John
Dennis,' is the figure they exhibit. The brave Forster-sinking
slowly of broken heart, in the midst of that volcanic chaos of the
Reign of Terror, and clinging still to the cause, which, though now
bloody and terrible, he believed to be the highest, and for which
MIRABEAU, 65
he had sacrificed all, country, kindred, fortune, friends and life,
compares the Revolution, indeed, to ‘an explosion and new crea-
tion of the world;' but the actors in it, who went buzzing about
him, to a ‘handvoll micken, handful of flies.” And yet, one may
add, this same explosion of a world was their work; the work of
these—flies 2 The truth is, neither Forster nor any man can see
a French Revolution; it is like seeing the ocean : poor Charles
Lamb complained that he could not see the multitudinous ocean
at all, but only some insignificant fraction of it from the deck of
the Margate hoy. It must be owned, however (urge these severe
critics), that examples of rabid triviality abound in the French
Revolution, to a lamentable extent. Consider Maximilien Robes-
pierre; for the greater part of two years, what one may call Auto-
crat of France. A poor sea-green (verdátre), atrabiliar Formula of
a man; without head, without heart, or any grace, gift, or even
vice beyond common, if it were not vanity, astucity, diseased rigour
(which some count strength) as of a cramp : really a most poor
sea-green individual in spectacles; meant by Nature for a Metho-
dist parson of the stricter sort, to doom men who departed from
the written confession; to chop fruitless shrill logic; to contend,
and suspect, and ineffectually wrestle and wriggle; and, on the
whole, to love, or to know, or to be (properly speaking) Nothing:—
this was he who, the sport of wracking winds, saw himself whirled
aloft to command la première nation de l'univers, and all men shout-
ing long life to him: one of the most lamentable, tragic, sea-green
objects, ever whirled aloft in that manner, in any country, to his
own swift destruction, and the world's long wonderſ
So argue these severe critics of the French Revolution: with
whom we argue not here ; but remark rather, what is more to the
purpose, that the French Revolution did disclose original men :
among the twenty-five millions, at least one or two units. Some
reckon, in the present stage of the business, as many as three:
Napoleon, Danton, Mirabeau. Whether more will come to light,
or of what sort, when the computation is quite liquidated, one
cannot say: meanwhile let the world be thankful for these three ;—
as, indeed, the world is ; loving original men, without limit, were
they never so questionable, well knowing how rare they are ! To
us, accordingly, it is rather interesting to observe how on these
three also, questionable as they surely are, the old process is re-
peating itself; how these also are getting known in their true like-
mess. A second generation, relieved in some measure from the
spectral hallucinations, hysterical ophthalmia and natural panic-
delirium of the first contemporary one, is gradually coming to dis.
* Forster's Brief, wmd Nachlass.
WOL. IV. F
66 - MISCELIANIES.
cern and measure what its predecessor could only execrate and
shriek over: for, as our Proverb said, the dust is sinking, the rub-
bish-heaps disappear; the built house, such as it is, and was ap-
pointed to be, stands visible, better or worse.
Of Napoleon Bonaparte, what with so many bulletins, and such
self-proclamation from artillery and battle-thunder, loud enough to
ring through the deafest brain, in the remotest nook of this earth,
and now, in consequence, with so many biographies, histories and
historical arguments for and against, it may be said that he can
now shift for himself; that his true figure is in a fair way of being
ascertained. Doubtless it will be found one day what significance
was in him ; how (we quote from a New-England Book) ‘the man
‘ was a divine missionary, though unconscious of it; and preached,
‘through the cannon's throat, that great doctrine, “La carrière
‘ouverte aua, talens, The tools to him that can handle them,” which
‘ is our ultimate Political Evangel, wherein alone can Liberty lie.
* Madly enough he preached, it is true, as enthusiasts and first
‘missionaries are wont; with imperfect utterance, amid much
‘ frothy rant; yet as articulately perhaps as the case admitted.
‘ Or call him, if you will, an American backwoodsman, who had to
‘ fell unpenetrated forests, and battle with innumerable wolves,
‘ and did not entirely forbear strong liquor, rioting and even theft;
‘ whom, nevertheless, the peaceful sower will follow, and, as he
‘ cuts the boundless harvest, bless.'—From ‘the incarnate Moloch,'
which the word once was, onwards to this quiet version, there is a
considerable progress. -
Still more interesting is it, not without a touch almost of pathos,
to see how the rugged Terra Filius Danton begins likewise to
emerge, from amid the blood-tinted obscurations and shadows of
horrid cruelty, into calm light; and seems now not an Anthropo-
phagus, but partly a man. On the whole, the Earth feels it to be
something to have a ‘Son of Earth;' any reality, rather than a
Jhypocrisy and formula . With a man that went honestly to work
with himself, and said and acted, in any sense, with the whole
mind of him, there is always something to be done. Satan him-
self, according to Dante, was a praiseworthy object, compared with
those juste-milieu angels (so over-numerous in times like ours) who
“were neither faithful nor rebellious,” but were for their little selves
only : trimmers, moderates, plausible persons, who, in the Dantean
Hell, are found doomed to this frightful penalty, that “they have
not the hope to die (non han speranza di morte);' but sunk in torpid
death-life, in mud and the plague of flies, they are to doze and dree
forever, ‘hateful to God and to the Enemies of God :'
* Non ragionam di lor, ma guarda e passa "
MIRABEAU. 67
If Bonaparte were the ‘armed Soldier of Democracy, invincible
while he continued true to that, then let us call this Danton the
JEnfant Perdu, and unenlisted Revolter and Titan of Democracy,
which could not yet have soldiers or discipline, but was by the
nature of it lawless. An Earthborn, we say, yet honestly born of
Earth ! In the Memoirs of Garat, and elsewhere, one sees these
fire-eyes beam with earnest insight, fill with the water of tears;
the broad rude features speak withal of wild human sympathies;
that Antaeus' bosom also held a heart. “It is not the alarm-can-
non that you hear,” cries he to the terror-struck, when the Prus-
sians were already at Verdun : “it is the pas de charge against our
enemies.” “De l'audace, et encore de l'audace, et toujours de l'audace,
To dare, and again to dare, and without limit to dare ſ”—there is
nothing left but that. Poor ‘Mirabeau of the Sansculottes,' what
a mission | And it could not be but done,—and it was done ! But,
indeed, may there not be, if well considered, more virtue in this
feeling itself, once bursting earnest from the wild heart, than in
whole lives of immaculate Pharisees and Respectabilities, with
their eye ever set on “character,’ and the letter of the law : “Qué
mon nom soit flétri, Let my name be blighted, then ; let the Cause
be glorious, and have victory !” By-and-by, as we predict, the
Friend of Humanity, since so many Knife-grinders have no story
to tell him, will find some sort of story in this Danton. A rough-
hewn giant of a man, not anthropophagous entirely; whose ‘figures
of speech, and also of action, “are all gigantic ;' whose “voice re-
verberates from the domes,’ and dashes Brunswick across the
marches in a very wrecked condition. Always his total freedom
from cant is one thing; even in his briberies, and sins as to money,
there is a frankness, a kind of broad greatness. Sincerity, a great
rude sincerity of insight and of purpose, dwelt in the man, which
quality is the root of all: a man who could see through many
things, and would stop at very few things; who marched and
fought impetuously forward, in the questionablest element; and
now bears the penalty, in a name ‘blighted, yet, as we say, visibly
clearing itself. Once cleared, why should not this name too have
significance for men? The wild history is a tragedy, as all human
histories are. Brawny Dantons, still to the present hour, rend the
glebe, as simple brawny Farmers, and reap peaceable harvests, at
Arcis-sur-Aube; and this Danton—! It is an unrhymed tragedy;
very bloody, fuliginous (after the manner of the elder dramatists);
yet full of tragic elements; not undeserving natural pity and fear.
In quiet times, perhaps still at a great distance, the happier onlooker
may stretch out the hand, across dim centuries, to him, and say:
“Ill-starred brother, how thou foughtest with wild lion-strength,
68 MISCELLANIES.
and yet not with strength enough, and flamedst aloft, and wert
trodden down of sin and misery;-behold, thou also wert a man "
It is said there lies a Biography of Danton written, in Paris, at
this moment: but the editor waits till the ‘force of public opinion'
ebb a little. Let him publish, with utmost convenient despatch,
and say what he knows, if he do know it: the lives of remarkable
men are always worth understanding instead of misunderstanding;
and public opinion must positively adjust itself the best way it can.
But without doubt the far most interesting, best-gifted of this
questionable trio is not the Mirabeau of the Sansculottes, but the
Mirabeau himself: a man of much finer nature than either of the
others; of a genius equal in strength, we will say, to Napoleon's ;
but a much humaner genius, almost a poetic one. With wider
sympathies of his own, he appeals far more persuasively to the
sympathies of men.
Of him too it is interesting to notice the progressive dawning,
out of calumny, misrepresentation and confused darkness, into
visibility and light; and how the world manifests its continued
curiosity about him; and as book after book comes forth with new
evidence, the matter is again taken up, the old judgment on it re-
vised and anew revised;—whereby, in fine, we can hope the right,
or approximately right, sentence will be found; and so the ques-
tion be left settled. It would seem this Mirabeau also is one
whose memory the world will not, for a long while, let die. Very
different from many a high memory, dead and deep-buried long
since then In his lifetime, even in the final effulgent part of it,
this Mirabeau took upon him to write, with a sort of awe-struck
feeling, to our Mr. Wilberforce; and did not, that we can find, get
the benefit of any answer. Pitt was prime minister, and then Fox,
then again Pitt, and again Fox, in sweet vicissitude; and the noise
of them, reverberating through Brookes's and the club-rooms,
through tavern-dinners, electioneering hustings, leading-articles,
filled all the earth; and it seemed as if those two (though which
might be which, you could not say) were the Ormuzd and Ahriman
of political Nature;—and now! Such difference is there, once
more, between an original man, of never such questionable sort,
and the most dexterous, cunningly-devised parliamentary mill.
The difference is great; and one of those on which the future time
makes largest contrast with the present. Nothing can be more im-
portant than the mill while it continues and grinds; important,
above all, to those who have sacks about the hopper. But the
grinding once done, how can the memory of it endure ? It is im-
portant now to no individual, not even to the individual with a
MIRABEAU. * 69
sack. So that, this tumult well over, the memory of the original
man, and of what small revelation he, as Son of Nature and bro-
ther-man, could make, does naturally rise on us: his memorable
sayings, actings and sufferings, the very vices and crimes he fell
into, are a kind of pabulum which all mortals claim their right to.
Concerning Peuchet, Chaussard, Gassicourt, and, indeed, all the
former Biographers of Mirabeau, there can little be said here, ex-
cept that they abound with errors: the present ultimate Fils Adop-
tif has never done picking faults with them. Not as memorials of
Mirabeau, but as memorials of the world's relation to him, of the
world's treatment of him, they may, a little longer, have some per-
ceptible significance. From poor Peuchet (he was known in the
Moniteur once), and other the like labourers in the vineyard, you
can justly demand thus much ; and not justly much more.
Etienne Dumont's Souvenirs sur Mirabeau might not, at first
sight, seem an advance towards true knowledge, but a movement
the other way, and yet it was really an advance. The book, for one
thing, was liailed by a universal choral blast from all manner of
reviews and periodical literatures that Europe, in all its spellable
dialects, had : whereby, at least, the minds of men were again
drawn to the subject; and so, amid whatever hallucination, ancient
or new-devised, some increase of insight was unavoidable. Besides,
the book itself did somewhat. Numerous specialties about the
great Frenchman, as read by the eyes of the little Genevese, were
conveyed there; and could be deciphered, making allowances.
Dumont is faithful, veridical; within his own limits he has even
a certain freedom, a picturesqueness and light clearness. It is
true, the whim he had of looking at the great Mirabeau as a thing
set in motion mainly by him (M. Dumont) and such as he, was one
of the most wonderful to be met with in psychology. Nay, more
wonderful stili, how the reviewers, pretty generally, some from
whom better was expected, took up the same with aggravations;
and it seemed settled on all sides, that here again a pretender had
been stripped, and the great made as little as the rest of us (much
to our comfort); that, in fact, figuratively speaking, this enormous
Mirabeau, the sound of whom went forth to all lands, was no other
than an enormous trumpet, or coach-horn, of japanned tin, through
which a dexterous little M. Dumont was blowing all the while, and
making the noise ! Some men and reviewers have strange theories
of man. Let any son of Adam, the shallowest now living, try hon-
ostly to scheme out, within his head, an existence of this kind;
and say how verisimilar it iodks A life and business actually
conducted on such coach-horn principle-we say not the life and
business of a statesman and world-leader, but say of the poorest
70 MISCELLANIES.
laceman and tape-seller,-were one of the chief miracles hitherto
on record. O M. Dumont But thus too, when old Sir Christo-
pher struck down the last stone in the Dome of St. Paul's, was it
he that carried up the stone? No; it was a certain strong-backed
man, never mentioned (covered with envious or unenvious obli-
vion), -probably of the Sister Island.
Let us add, however, more plainly, that M. Dumont was less to
blame here than his reviewers were. The good Dumont accurately
records what ingenious journey-work and fetching and carrying he
did for his Mirabeau; interspersing many an anecdote, which the
world is very glad of; extenuating nothing, we do hope, nor exag-
gerating anything: this is what he did, and had a clear right and
call to do. And what if it failed, not altogether, yet in some mea-
sure if it did fail, to strike him, that he still properly was but a
Dumont? Nay, that the gift this Mirabeau had of enlisting such
respectable Dumonts to do hodwork and even skilful handiwork
for him; and of ruling them and bidding them by the look of his
eye; and of making them cheerfully fetch-and-carry for him, and
serve him as loyal subjects, with a kind of chivalry and willingness,
—that this gift was precisely the kinghood of the man, and did
itself stamp him as a leader among men | Let no man blame M.
Dumont (as some have too harshly done); his error is of oversight,
and venial; his worth to us is indisputable. On the other hand,
let all men blame such public instructors and periodical individuals
as drew that inference and life-theory for him, and brayed it forth
in that loud manner; or rather, on the whole, do not blame, but
pardon, and pass by on the other side. Such things are an or-
dained trial of public patience, which perhaps is the better for dis-
cipline ; and seldom, or rather never, do any lasting injury.
Close following on Dumont's Reminiscences came this Biography
by M. Lucas Montigny, “Adopted Son;' the first volume in 1834,
the rest at short intervals; and lies complete now in Eight con-
siderable Volumes octavo : concerning which we are now to speak,
—unhappily, in the disparaging sense. In fact it is impossible
for any man to say unmixed good of M. Lucas's work. That he,
as Adopted Son, has lent himself so resolutely to the washing of
his hero white, and even to the white-washing of him where the
natural colour was black, be this no blame to him; or even, if you
will, be it praise. If a man's Adopted Son may not write the best
book he can for him, then who may? But the fatal circumstance
is, that M. Lucas Montigny has not written a book at all; but has
merely clipped and cut out, and cast together the materials for a
book, which other men are still wanted to write. On the whole
M. Montigny rather surprises one. For the reader probably
MIRA.BEAU. 71
knows, what all the world whispers to itself, that when ‘Mirabeau,
in 1783, adopted this infant born the year before,' he had the best
of all conceivable obligations to adopt him ; having, by his own
act (non-notarial), summoned him to appear in this World. And
now consider both what Shakspeare's Edmund, what Poet Savage,
and such like, have bragged; and also that the Mirabeaus, from
time immemorial, had (like a certain British kindred known to us)
‘produced many a blackguard, but not one blockhead!' We almost
discredit that statement, which all the world whispers to itself;
or, if crediting it, pause over the ruins of families. The Haarlem
canal is not flatter than M. Montigny's genius. He wants the
talent which seems born with all Frenchmen, that of presenting
what knowledge he has in the most knowable form. One of the
Solidest men, too : doubtless a valuable man; whom it were so
pleasant for us to praise, if we could. May he be happy in a pri-
vate station, and never write more ;-except for the Bureaux de
Préfecture, with tolerably handsome official appointments, which
is far better |
His biographical work is a monstrous quarry, or mound of shot-
rubbish, in eight strata, hiding valuable matter, which he that
seeks will find. Valuable, we say; for the Adopted Son having
access, may welcome and friendly entreaty, to family papers, to all
manner of archives, secret records; and working therein long years,
with a filial unweariedness, has made himself piously at home in
all corners of the matter. He might, with the same spirit (as we
always upbraidingly think), so easily have made us at home too !
But no : he brings to light things new and old; now precious
illustrative private documents, now the poorest public heaps of
mere pamphleteer and parliamentary matter, so attainable else-
where, often so omissible were it not to be attained; and jumbles
and tumbles the whole together with such reckless clumsiness,
with such endless copiousness (having wagons enough), as gives
the reader many a pang. The very pains bestowed on it are often
perverse; the whole is become so hard, heavy; unworkable, ex-
cept in the Sweat of one's brow! Or call it a mine,—artificial-
natural silver mine. Threads of beautiful silver ore lie seattered,
which you must dig for, and sift: suddenly, when your thread or
vein is at the richest, it vanishes (as is the way with mines) in
thick masses of agglomerate and pudding-stone, no man can guess
whither. This is not as it should be ; and yet unfortunately it
could be no other. The long bad book is so much easier to do
than the brief good one; and a poor bookseller has no way of
measuring and paying but by the ell, cubic or superficial. The
very weaver comes and says, liot “I have woven so many ells of
tº
72 MISCELLANIES.
stuff,” but “so many ells of such stuff:” satin and Cashmere-shawl
stuff-or, if it be so, duffle and coal-sacking, and even cobweb
stuff.
Undoubtedly the Adopted Son's will was good. Ought we not
to rejoice greatly in the possession of these same silver-veins; and
take them in the buried mineral state, or in any state; too thank-
ful to have them now indestructible, now that they are printed 2
Let the world, we say, be thankful to M. Montigny, and yet know
what it is they are thanking him for. No Life of Mirabeau is to
be found in these Volumes, but the amplest materials for writing
a Life. Were the Eight Volumes well riddled and smelted down
into One Volume, such as might be made, that one were the
volume Nay it seems an enterprise of such uses, and withal so
feasible, that some day it is as good as sure to be done, and again
done, and finally well done.
The present reviewer, restricted to a mere article, purposes,
nevertheless, to sift and extract somewhat. He has bored (so to
speak) and run mine-shafts through the book in various directions,
and knows pretty well what is in it, though indeed not so well
where to find the same, having unfortunately (as reviewers are
wont) “mislaid our paper of references !' Wherefore, if the best
extracts be not presented, let not M. Lucas suffer. By one means
and another, some sketch of Mirabeau's history; what befell him
successively in this World, and what steps he successively took
in consequence; and how he and it, working together, made the
thing we call Mirabeau's Life, may be brought out; extremely
imperfect, yet truer, one can hope, than the Biographical Dic-
tionaries and ordinary voice of rumour give it. Whether, and if
so, where and how, the current estimate of Mirabeau is to be recti-
fied, fortified, or in any important point overset and expunged, will
hereby come to light, almost of itself, as we proceed. Indeed, it is
very singular, considering the emphatic judgments daily uttered,
in print and speech, about this man, what Egyptian obscurity rests
over the mere facts of his external history; the right knowledge of
which, one would fancy, must be the preliminary of any judgment,
however faint. But thus, as we always urge, are such judgments
generally passed: vague plebiscita, decrees of the common people;
made up of innumerable loud empty ayes and loud empty noes;
which are without meaning, and have only sound and currency:
plebiscita needing so much revisal!—To the work, however.
One of the most valuable elements in these Eight chaotic
Volumes of M. Montigny is the knowledge he communicates of
Mirabeau's father; of his kindred and family, contemporary and
*
MIRABEAU. 73
anterior. The father, we in general knew, was Victor Riquetti,
Marquis de Mirabeau, called and calling himself the Friend of Men;
a title, for the rest, which bodes him no good, in these days of
ours. Accordingly one heard it added with little surprise, that
this Friend of Men was the enemy of almost every man he had to
do with; beginning at his own hearth, ending at the utmost circle
of his acquaintance; and only beyond that, feeling himself free to
love men. “The old hypocrite l" cry many, not we. Alas, it is
so much easier to love men while they exist only on paper, or
quite flexible and compliant in your imagination, than to love
Jack and Kit who stand there in the body, hungry, untoward;
jostling you, barring you, with angular elbows, with appetites, iras-
cibilities and a stupid will of their own There is no doubt but
old Marquis Mirabeau found it extremely difficult to get on with
his brethren of mankind; and proved a crabbed, sulphurous,
choleric old gentleman, many a sad time : nevertheless, there is
much to be set right in that matter; and M. Lucas, if one can
carefully follow him, has managed to do it. Had M. Lucas but
seen good to print these private letters, family documents, and
more of them (for he ‘could make thirty octavo volumes'), in a
separate state; in mere chronological order, with some small com-
mentary of annotation; and to leave all the rest alone !—As it is,
one must search and sift. Happily the old Marquis himself, in
periods of leisure, or forced leisure, whereof he had many, drew-
up certain ‘unpublished memoirs' of his father and progenitors;
out of which memoirs young Mirabeau also in forced leisure (still
more forced, in the Castle of If]) redacted one Memoir, of a very
readable sort: by the light of this latter, so far as it will last, we
walk with convenience.
The Mirabeaus were Riquettis by surname, which is a slight
corruption of the Italian Arrighetti. They came from Florence:
cast out of it in some Guelph-Ghibelline quarrel, such as were
common there and then, in the year 1267. Stormy times then, as
now ! The chronologist can remark that Dante Alighieri was a
little boy, of some two years, that morning the Arrighettis had to
go, and men had to say, “They are gone, these villains! They are
gone, these martyrs " the little boy listening with interest. Let
the boy become a man, and he too shall have to go; and prove
come 6 duro calle, and what a world this is; and have his poet-
nature not killed, for it would not kill, but darkened into Old-He-
brew sternness, and sent onwards to Hades and Eternity for a
home to itself. As Dame Quickly said in the Dream—“Those
were rare times, Mr. Rigmarole !”—“Pretty much like our own,”
answered he.—In this manner did the Arrighettis (doubtless in
74 MISCELLANIES.
grim Longobardic ire) scale the Alps; and become Tramontane
French Riquettis; and produce,—among other things, the present
Article in this Review.
It was hinted above that these Riquettis were a notable kin-
dred; as indeed there is great likelihood, if we knew it rightly,
the kindred and fathers of most notable men are. The Vaucluse
fountain, that gushes out as a river, may well have run some space
underground in that character, before it found vent. Nay per-
haps it is not always, or often, the intrinsically greatest of a family-
line that becomes the noted one, but only the best favoured of
fortune. So rich here, as elsewhere, is Nature, the mighty Mother;
and scatters from a single Oak-tree, as provender for pigs, what
would plant the whole Planet into an oak-forest For truly, if
there were not a mute force in her, where were she with the speak-
ing and exhibiting one 2 If under that frothy superficies of brag-
garts, babblers and high-sounding, richly-decorated personages,
that strut and fret, and preach in all times Quam parvá. Sapientić
regatur, there lay not some substratum of silently heroic men;
working as men; with man's energy, enduring and endeavouring ;
invincible, who whisper not even to themselves how energetic they
are ?—The Riquetti family was, in some measure, defined already
by analogy to that British one; as a family totally exempt from
blockheads, but a little liable to produce blackguards. It took
root in Provence, and bore strong southern fruit there: a restless,
stormy line of men; with the wild blood running in them, and as
if there had been a doom hung over them (; like the line of Atreus,'
Mirabeau used to say); which really there was, the wild blood
itself being doom enough. How long they had stormed in Flo-
rence and elsewhere, these Riquettis, history knows not ; but for
the space of those five centuries, in Provence, they were never
without a man to stand Riquetti-like on the earth. Men sharp of
speech, prompt of stroke; men quick to discern, fierce to resolve;
headlong, headstrong, strong every way; who often found the
civic race-course too strait for them, and kicked against the pricks;
doing this thing or the other, which the world had to animadvert
upon, in various dialects, and find “clean against rule.’
One Riquetti (in performance of some vow at sea, as the tra-
dition goes) chained two mountains together: “the iron chain is
“still to be seen at Moustier; —it stretches from one mountain to
‘the other, and in the middle of it there is a large star with five
‘rays;’ the supposed date is 1890. Fancy the Smiths at work on
this business The town of Moustier is in the Basses-Alpes of
Provence: whether the Riquetti chain creeks there to this hour,
and lazily swags in the winds, with its ‘star of five rays' in the
MIRABEAU. 75
centre, and offers an uncertain perch to the sparrow, we know not.
Or perhaps it was cut down in the Revolution time, when there
rose such a hatred of noblesse, such a famine for iron ; and made
into pikes 2 The Adopted Son, so minute generally, ought to have
mentioned, but does not —That there was building of hospitals,
endowing of convents, Chartreux, Récollets, down even to Jesuits;
still more, that there was harrying and fighting, needs not be men-
tioned: except only that all this went on with uncommon emphasis
among the Riquettis. What quarrel could there be and a Riquetti
not in it 2 They fought much : with an eye to profit, to redress
of disprofit; probably too for the art's sake.
What proved still more rational, they got footing in Marseilles
as trading nobles (a kind of French Venice in those days), and
took with great diligence to commerce. The family biographers
are careful to say that it was in the Venetian style, however, and
not ignoble. In which sense, indeed, one of their sharp-spoken
ancestors, on a certain bishop's unceremoniously styling him ‘Jean
de Riquetti, Merchant of Marseilles,' made ready answer: “I am,
or was, merchant of police here” (first consul, an office for nobles
only), “as my Lord Bishop is merchant of holy-water:” let his
Reverence take that. At all events, the ready-spoken proved first-
rate traders; acquired their bastide, or mansion (white, on one of
those green hills behind Marseilles), endless warehouses: acquired
the lands first of this, then of that ; the lands, Village, and Castle
of Mirabeau on the banks of the Durance; respectable Castle of
Mirabeau, ‘standing on its scarped rock, in the gorge of two val-
leys, swept by the north wind,'—very brown and melancholy-look-
ing now ! What is extremely advantageous, the old Marquis says,
they had a singular talent for choosing wives; and always chose
discreet, valiant women; whereby the lineage was the better kept
up. One grandmother, whom the Marquis himself might all but
remember, was wont to say, alluding to the degeneracy of the age:
“You are men 2 You are but manikins (sias houmachomes, in Pro-
vençal); we women, in our time, carried pistols in our girdles,
and could use them too.” Or fancy the Dame Mirabeau sailing
stately towards the church-font; another dame striking-in to take
precedence of her; the Dame Mirabeau despatching this latter
with a box on the ear (soufflet), and these words: “Here, as in the
army, the baggage goes last!” Thus did the Riquettis grow, and
were strong; and did exploits in their narrow arena, waiting for a
wider one.
When it came to courtiership, and your field of preferment
was the Versailles CEil-de-Boeuf, and a Grand Monarque walking
encircled with scarlet women and adulators there, the course of
^
76 MISCELLANIES.
the Mirabeaus grew still more complicated. They had the career
of arms open, better or worse: , but that was not the only one, not
the main one ; gold apples seemed to rain on other careers, on
that career lead bullets mostly. Observe how a Bruno, Count de
Mirabeau, comports himself:-like a rhinoceros yoked in carriage-
gear; his fierce forest-horn set to dangle a plume of fleurs-de-lis.
‘One day he had chased a blue man (it is a sort of troublesome
‘usher at Versailles) into the very cabinet of the King, who there.
‘ upon ordered the Duke de la Feuillade to put Mirabeau under
‘ arrest. Mirabeau refused to obey; he “would not be punished
‘ for chastising the insolence of a valet; for the rest, would go to
‘the diner du roi (king's dinner), who might then give his order
‘ himself.” He came accordingly; the King asked the Duke why
‘ he had not executed the order 2 The Duke was obliged to say
“how it stood; the King, with a goodness equal to his greatness,
“ then said, “It is not of today that we know him to be mad; one
‘must not ruin him,”’—and the rhinoceros Bruno journeyed on.
But again, on the day when they were inaugurating the pedes-
‘ trian statue of King Louis in the Place des Victoires (a master-
‘ piece of adulation),' the same Mirabeau, ‘passing along the Pont
* Neuf with the Guards, raised his spontoon to his shoulder before
* Henry the Fourth’s statue, and saluting first, bawled out, “Friends,
“we will salute this one ; he deserves it as well as some, Mes amis,
‘ saluons celui ci; il en vaut bien un autre.” –Thus do they, the wild
Riquettis, in a state of courtiership. Not otherwise, according to
the proverb, do wild bulls, unexpectedly finding themselves in
crockery-shops. O Riquetti kindred, into what centuries and cir-
cumstances art thou come down
Directly prior to our old Marquis himself, the Riquetti kindred
had as near as possible gone out. Jean Antoine, afterwards named
Silverstock (Col d'Argent), had, in the earlier part of his life, been
what he used to call killed, of seven-and-twenty wounds in one
hour. Haughtier, juster, more choleric man need not be sought
for in biography. He flung gabellemen and excisemen into the
river Durance (though otherwise a most dignified, methodic man),
when their claims were not clear; he ejected, by the like brief
process, all manner of attorneys from his villages and properties;
he planted vineyards, solaced peasants. He rode through France
repeatedly (as the old men still remembered), with the gallantest
train of outriders, on return from the wars; intimidating innkeep-
ers and all the world, into mute prostration, into unerring promp-
titude, by the mere light of his eye;—withal drinking rather deep,
yet never seen affected by it. He was a tall. Straight man (of six
feet and upwards) in mind as in body: Vendôme's ‘right arm' in
MIRA.BEAU. 77
all campaigns. Vendôme once presented him to Louis the Great,
with compliments to that effect, which the splenetic Riquetti quite
spoiled. Erecting his killed head, which needed the silver stock
now to keep it straight, he said: “Yes, Sire; and had I left my
fighting, and come up to court, and bribed some catin (scarlet
woman ), I might have had my promotion and fewer wounds to-
day !” The Grand King, every inch a king, instantaneously spoke
of something else.
But the reader should have first seen that same killing; how
twenty-seven of those unprofitable wounds were come by in one
fell lot. The Battle of Casano has grown very obscure to most of
us; and indeed Prince Eugene and Vendôme themselves grow
dimmer and dimmer, as men and battles must: but, curiously
enough, this small fraction of it has brightened up again to a point
of history, for the time being:
“My grandfather had foreseen that manoeuvre' (it is Mirabeau, the
Count, not the Marquis, that reports: Prince Eugene has carried a certain
bridge which the grandfather had charge of); ‘but he did not, as has since
happened at Malplaquet and Fontenoy, commit the blunder of attacking
right in the teeth a column of such weight as that. He lets them advance,
hurried-on by their own impetuosity and by the pressure of their rearward;
and now seeing them pretty well engaged, he raised his troop (it was lying
flat on the ground), and rushing on, himself at the head of them, takes the
enemy in flank, cuts them in two, dashes them baek, chases them over the
bridge again, which they had to repass in great disorder and haste. Things
brought to their old state, he resumes his post on the erown of the bridge,
shelters his troop as before, which, having performed all this service under
the sure deadly fire of the enemy's double lines from over the stream, had
suffered a good deal. M. de Vendôme coming up, full gallop, to the attack,
finds it already finished, the whole line flat on the earth, only the tall figure
of the colonel standing erect! He orders him to do like the rest, not to
have himself shot till the time came. His faithful servant eries to him,
“Never would I expose myself without need; I am bound to be here, but
you, Monseigneur, are bound not. I answer to you for the post; but take
yourself out of it, or I give it up.” The Prince (Vendôme) then orders
him, in the king's name, to come down. “Go to, the king and you : I am
at my work; go you and do yours.” The good generous Prince yielded.
The post was entirely untenable.
‘A little afterwards my grandfather had his right arm shattered. He
formed a sort of sling for it of his pocket-handkerchief, and kept his place;
for there was a new attack getting ready. The right moment once come,
he seizes an axe in his left hand, repeats the same manoeuvre as before;
again repulses the enemy, again drives him back over the bridge. But it
was here that ill-fortune lay in wait for him. At the very moment while he
was recalling and ranging his troop, a bullet struck him in the throat; cut
asunder the tendons, the jugular vein. He sank on the bridge; the troop
broke and fled. M. de Montolieu, Knight of Malta, his relative, was
wounded beside him : he tore-up his own shirt, and those of several others,
to stanch the blood, but fainted himself by his own hurt. An old Sergeant,
named Laprairie, begged the aide-major of the regiment, one Guadin, a
78 MISCELLANIES.
Gascon, to help and carry him off the bridge. Guadin refused, saying he
was dead. The good Laprairie could only cast a camp-kettle over his colo-
nel's head, and then run. The enemy trampled over him in torrents to
profit by the disorder; the cavalry at full speed, close in the rear of the
foot. M. de Vendôme, seeing his line broken, the enemy forming on this
side the stream, and consequently the bridge lost, exclaimed, “Ah! Mira-
beau is dead then ;” a eulogy forever dear and memorable to us.”
How nearly, at this moment, it was all over with the Mira-
beaus; how, but for the cast of an insignificant camp-kettle, there
had not only been no Article Mirabeau in this Review, but no
French Revolution, or a very different one; and all Europe had
found itself in far other latitudes at this hour, any one who has a
turn for such things may easily reflect. Nay, without great diffi-
culty, he may reflect farther, that not only the French Revolution
and this Article, but all revolutions, articles and achievements
whatsoever, the greatest and the smallest, which this world ever
beheld, have not once, but often, in their course of genesis, de-
pended on the veriest trifles, castings of camp-kettles, turnings of
straws; except only that we do not see that course of theirs. So
inscrutable is genetic history; impracticable the theory of causa-
tion, and transcends all calculus of man's devising ! Thou thyself,
O Reader (who art an achievement of importance), over what hairs-
breadth bridges of Accident, through yawning perils, and the man-
devouring gulf of Centuries, hast thou got safe hither, from Adam
all the way !
Be this as it can, Col d'Argent came alive again, by “miracle of
surgery;' and, holding his head up by means of a silver stock,
walked this earth many long days, with respectability, with fiery
intrepidity and spleen; did many notable things: among others,
produced, in dignified wedlock, Mirabeau the Friend of Men; who
again produced Mirabeau the Swallower of Formulas; from which
latter, and the wondrous blazing funeral-pyre he made for himself,
there finally goes forth a light, whereby those old Riquetti desti-
nies, and many a strange old hidden thing, become rioticeable.
|But perhaps in the whole Riquetti kindred there is not a
stranger figure than this very Friend of Men; at whom, in the
order of time, we have now arrived. That Riquetti who chained
the mountains together, and hung up the star with five rays to
sway and bob there, was but a type of him. Strong, tough as the
oak-root, and as gnarled and unwedgeable; no fibre of him run-
ning straight with the other: a block for Destiny to beat on, for
the world to gaze at, with ineffectual wonder! Really a most nota-
ble, questionable, hateable, lovable old Marquis. How little, amid
such jingling triviality of Literature, Philosophie and the preten-
tious cackle of innumerable Baron Grimms, with their correspon-
MIRA.BEAU. 74)
dence and self-proclamation, one could fancy that France held in
it such a Nature-product as the Friend of Men! Why, there is
substance enough in this one Marquis to fit-out whole armies of
Philosophes, were it properly attenuated. So many poor Thomases
perorate and have éloges, poor Morellets speculate, Marmontels
moralise in rose-pink manner, Diderots become possessed of ency-
clopedical heads, and lean Carons de Beaumarchais fly abroad on
the wings of Figaros ; and this brave old Marquis has been hid
under a bushel ! He was a Writer, too ; and had talents for it
(certain of the talents), such as few Frenchmen have had since the
days of Montaigne. It skilled not: he, being unwedgeable, has
remained in antiquarian cabinets; the others, splitting-up so rea-
dily, are the ware you find on all market-stalls, much prized (say,
as brimstone Lucifers, ‘light-bringers' so called) by the generality.
Such is the world's way. And yet complain not ; this rich, un-
wedgeable old Marquis, have we not him too at last, and can keep
him all the longer than the Thomases?
The great Mirabeau used to say always that his father had the
greater gifts of the two ; which surely is saying something. Not
that you can subscribe to it in the full sense, but that in a very
wide sense you can. So far as mere speculative head goes, Mira-
beau is probably right. Looking at the old Marquis as a specula-
tive thinker and utterer of his thought, and with what rich colour-
ing of originality he gives it forth, you pronounce him to be supe-
rior, or even say supreme in his time; for the genius of him almost
rises to the poetic. Do our readers know the German Jean Paul,
and his style of thought? Singular to say, the old Marquis has a
quality in him resembling afar off that of Paul; and actually works
it out in his French manner, far as the French manner can. Never-
theless intellect is not of the speculative head only; the great end
of intellect surely is, that it make one see something: for which
latter result the whole man must coöperate. In the old Marquis
there dwells withal a crabbedness, stiff cross-grained humour, a
latent fury and fuliginosity, very perverting; which stiff crabbed-
ness, with its pride, obstinacy, affectation, what else is it at bottom
but want of strength ? The real quantity of our insight, how
justly and thoroughly we shall comprehend the nature of a thing,
especially of a human thing, depends on our patience, our fair-
ness, lovingness, what strength soever we have: intellect comes
from the whole man, as it is the light that enlightens the whole
man. In this true sense, the younger Mirabeau, with that great
flashing eyesight of his, that broad, fearless freedom of nature he
had, was very clearly the superior man. º
At bottom, perhaps, the main definition you could give of old
80 MISCELLANIES.
Marquis Mirabeau is, that he was of the Pedant species. Stiff as
brass, in all senses; unsympathising, uncomplying; of an endless,
unfathomable pride, which cloaks but does nowise extinguish an
endless vanity and need of shining: stately, euphuistic mannerism
enveloping the thought, the morality, the whole being of the man.
A solemn, high-stalking man; with such a fund of indignation in
him, or of latent indignation; of contumacity, irrefragability;-who
(after long experiment) accordingly looks forth on mankind and
this world of theirs with some dull-snuffling word of forgiveness,
of contemptuous acquittal; or oftenest with clenched lips (nostrils
slightly dilated), in expressive silence. Here is pedantry; but
then pedantry under the most interesting new circumstances; and
withal carried to such a pitch as becomes sublime, one might al-
most say transcendental. Consider indeed whether Marquis Mira-
beau could be a pedant, as your common Scaligers and Scioppiuses
are His arena is not a closet with Greek manuscripts, but the
wide world and Friendship to Humanity. Does not the blood of all
the Mirabeaus circulate in his honourable veins ? He too would
do somewhat to raise higher that high house; and yet, alas, it is
plain to him that the house is sinking; that much is sinking. The
Mirabeaus, and above all others this Mirabeau, are fallen on evil
times. It has not escaped the old Marquis how Nobility is now
decayed, nearly ruinous; based no longer on heroic nobleness of
conduct and effort, but on sycophancy, formality, adroitness; on
Parchments, Tailor's trimmings, Prunello and Coach-leather: on
which latter basis, unless his whole insight into Heaven's ways
with Earth have misled him, no institution in this god-governed
world can pretend to continue. Alas, and the priest has now no
tongue but for plate-licking; and the tax-gatherer squeezes ; and
the strumpetocracy sits at its ease, in high-cushioned lordliness,
under baldachins and cloth-of-gold: till now at last, what with one
fiction, what with another (and veridical Nature dishonouring all
manner of fictions, and refusing to pay realities for them), it has
come so far that the Twenty-five millions, long scarce of knowledge,
of virtue, happiness, cash, are now fallen scarce of food to eat; and
do not, with that natural ferocity of theirs which Nature has still
left them, feel the disposition to die starved; and all things are
nodding towards chaos, and no man layeth it to heart | One man
exists who might perhaps stay or avert the catastrophe, were he
called to the helm : the Marquis Mirabeau. His high, ancient
blood, his heroic love of truth, his strength of heart, his loyalty
and profound insight (for you cannot hear him speak without
detecting the man of genius), this, with the appalling predicament
things have come to, might give him claims. From time to time,
MIRABEAU. 81
at long intervals, such a thought does flit, portentous, through the
brain of the Marquis. But ah! in these scandalous days, how
shall the proudest of the Mirabeaus fall prostrate before a Pompa-
dour? Can the Friend of Men hoist, with good hope, as his battle-
standard, the furbelow of an unmentionable woman 2 No ; not
hanging by the apron-strings of such a one will this Mirabeau rise
to the premiership; but summoned by France in her day of need,
in her day of vision, or else not at all. France does not summon;
the else goes its road.
Marquis Mirabeau tried Literature too, as we said; and with
no inconsiderable talent; nay, with first-rate talents in some Sort:
but neither did this prosper. His Ecce signum, in such era of
downfall and all-darkening ruin, was Political Economy; and a
certain man, whom he called ‘the Master,'—that is, Dr. Quesnay.
Round this Master (whom the Marquis succeeded as Master him-
self) he and some other idolaters did idolatrously gather: to pub-
lish books and tracts, periodical literature, proclamation by word
and deed,—if so were, the world's dull ear might be opened to e
salvation. The world's dull ear continued shut. In vain preached
this apostle and that other, simultaneously or in Meliboean Se-
quence, in literature, periodical and stationary; in vain preached
Marquis Mirabeau in his Ami des Hommes, number after number,
through long volumes, though really in a most eloquent manner.
Marquis Mirabeau had the indisputablest ideas; but then his style!
In very truth, it is the strangest of styles, though one of the rich-
est: a style full of originality, picturesqueness, sunny vigour; but
all cased and slated over, threefold, in metaphor and trope; dis-
tracted into tortuosities, dislocations; starting-out into crotchets,
cramp turns, quaintnesses, and hidden satire; which the French
head had no ear for. Strong meat, too tough for babes' The
Friend of Men found warm partisans, widely scattered over this
Earth; and had censer-fumes transmitted him from marquises,
may from kings and principalities, over seas and alpine chains of
mountains; whereby the pride and latent indignation of the man
were only fostered: but at home, with the million all jigging each
after its suitable scrannel-pipe, he could see himself make no way,
—if it were not way towards being a monstrosity, and thing men
wanted ‘to see:' not the right thing! Neither through the press,
then, is there progress towards the premiership 2 The staggering
state of French statesmen must even stagger whither it is bound.
A light Public froths itself into tempest about Palissot and his
comedy of Les Philosophes, about Gluck-Piccini Music; neglect.
ing the call of Ruin; and hard must come to hard. Thou, O Friend
of Men, clench thy lips together, and wait; silent as the old rocks.
WOL. IV. G.
82 MISCELLANIES.
Our Friend of Men did so, or better; not wanting to himself, the
lion-hearted old Marquis For his latent indignation has a certain
devoutness in it; is a kind of holy indignation. The Marquis,
though he knows the Encyclopédie, has not forgotten the higher
Sacred Books, or that there is a God in this world,—very different
from the French Etre Suprême. He even professes, or tries to
profess, a kind of diluted Catholicism, in his own way, and thus
turn an eye towards heaven: very singular in his attitude here too.
Thus it would appear this world is a mad imbroglio, which no
Friend of Men can set right: it shall go wrong then, in God's
name; and the staggering state of all things stagger whither it can.
To deep, fearful depths, not to bottomless ones
But in the Family Circle? There surely a man, and friend of
men, is supreme; and, ruling with wise autocracy, may make Some-
thing of it. Alas, in the family circle it went not better, but worse!
The Mirabeaus had once a talent for choosing wives: had it de-
serted them in this instance, then, when most needed? We say
not so: we say only that Madame la Marquise had human freewill
in her too; that all the young Mirabeaus were likely to have hu-
man freewill, in great plenty; that within doors as without, the
Devil is busy. Most unsuccessful is the Marquis as ruler of men:
his family kingdom, for the most part, little otherwise than in a
state of mutiny. A sceptre as of Rhadamanthus will sway and
drill that household into perfection of Harrison Clockwork; and
cannot do it. The royal ukase goes forth, in its calm, irrefragable
justice; meets hesitation, disobedience open or concealed. Repri-
mand is followed by remonstrance; harsh coming thunder mutters,
growl answering growl. With unaffectedly astonished eye the Mar-
quis appeals to Destiny and Heaven; explodes, since he needs
must then, in red lightning of paternal authority. How it went, or
who by forethought might be to blame, one knows not; for the Fils
Adoptif, hemmed-in by still extant relations, is extremely reticent
on these points: a certain Dame de Pailly, ‘from Switzerland, very
beautiful and very artful, glides half-seen through the Mirabeau
household (the Marquis's Orthodoxy, as we said, being but of the
diluted kind): there are eavesdroppers, confidential servants; there
are Pride, Anger, Uncharitableness, Sublime Pedantry, and the
Devil always busy. Such a figure as Pailly, of herself, bodes good
to no one. Enough, there are Lawsuits, Lettres de Cachet; on all
hands, peine forte et dure. Lawsuits, long drawn out, before gaping
Parlements, between man and wife: to the scandal of an unright-
eous world; how much more of a righteous Marquis, minded once
to be an example to it ! Lettres de Cachet, to the number, as some
count, of fifty-four, first and last, for the use of a single Marquis:
MIRABEAU. 83
at times the whole Mirabeau fireside is seen empty, except Pailly
and Marquis; each individual sitting in his separate Strong-house,
there to bethink himself. Stiff are your tempers, ye young Mira-
beaus; not stiffer than mine the old one's ' What pangs it has
cost the fond paternal heart to go through all this Brutus duty,
the Marquis knows, and Heaven. In a less degree, what pangs it
may cost the filial heart to go under (or undergo) the same ! The
former set of pangs he, aided by Heaven, crushes-down into his
soul suppressively, as beseems a man and Mirabeau: the latter
set-are they not self-sought pangs; medicinal; which will cease
of their own accord, when the unparalleled filial impiety pleases
to cease? For the rest, looking at such a world and such a family,
at these prison-houses, mountains of divorce-papers, and the stag-
gering state of French statesmen, a Friend of Men may pretty
naturally ask himself, Am not I a strong old Marquis then, whom
all this has not driven into Bedlam,_not into hypochondria, dys-
pepsia even 2 The Heavens are bounteous, and make the back
equal to the burden.
Out of all which circumstances, and of such struggle against
them, there has come forth this Marquis de Mirabeau, shaped (it
was the shape he could arrive at) into one of the most singular
Sublime Pedants that ever stepped the soil of France. Solemn
moral rigour, as of some antique Presbyterian Ruling Elder:
heavy breadth, dull heat, choler and pride as of an old ‘Bozzy of
Auchinleck;’ then a high-flown euphuistic courtesy, the airiest
mincing ways, suitable to your French Seigneur ! How the two
divine missions, for both seem to him divine, of Riquetti and
Man of Genius or World-schoolmaster, blend themselves; and
philosophism, chivalrous euphaism, presbyterian ruling-elderism,
all in such strength, have met, to give the world assurance of a
man There never entered the brain of Hogarth, or of rare old
Ben, such a piece of Humour (high meeting with low, and laughter
with tears) as, in this brave old Riquetti, Nature has presented us
ready-made. For withal there is such genius in him; rich depth
of character; indestructible cheerfulness and health breaking out,
in spite of these divorce-papers, ever and anon, like strong Sun-
light in thundery weather. We have heard of the ‘strife of Fate
with Freewill’ producing Greek Tragedies, but never heard it
till now produce such astonishing comico-tragical French Farces.
Blessed old Marquis, or else accursed He is there, with his
broad bull-brow; with the huge cheek-bones; those deep eyes,
glazed as in weariness; the lower visage puckered into a simper-
ing graciosity, which would pass itself off for a kind of Smile.
What to do with him 2 Welcome, thou tough old Marquis, with
84 MISCELLANIES.
thy better and thy worse ! There is stuff in thee (very different
from moonshine and formula); and stuff is stuff, were it never so
crabbed. *
Besides the old Marquis de Mirabeau, there is a Brother, the
Bailli de Mirabeau : a man who, serving as Knight of Malta,
governing in Guadaloupe, fighting and doing hard sea-duty, has
sown his wild oats long since; and settled down here, in the old
‘Castle of Mirabeau on its sheer rock’ (for the Marquis usually
lives at Bignon, another estate within reach of Paris), into one of
the worthiest quiet uncles and house-friends. It is very beautiful,
this mild strength, mild clearness and justice of the brave Bailli,
in contrast with his brother's nodosity; whom he comforts, de-
fends, admonishes, even rebukes; and on the whole reverences,
both as head Riquetti and as World-schoolmaster, beyond all living
men. The frank true love of these two brothers is the fairest fea-
ture in Mirabeaudom; indeed the only feature which is always
fair. Letters pass continually: in letter and extract we here, from
time to time, witness (in these Eight chaotic Volumes) the various
personages speak their dialogue, unfold their farce tragedy. The
Fils Adoptif admits mankind into this strange household; though
stingily, uncomfortably, and all in darkness, save for his own ca-
pricious dark-lantern. Seen or half-seen, it is a stage; as the
whole world is. What with personages, what with destinies, no
stranger house-drama was enacting on the Earth at that time.
Under such auspices, which were not yet ripened into events
and fatalities, but yet were inevitably ripening towards such, did
Gabriel Honoré, at the Mansion of Bignon, between Sens and
Nemours, on the 9th day of March 1749, first see the light. He
was the fifth child; the second male child; yet born heir, the first
having died in the cradle. A magnificent ‘enormous’ fellow, as
the gossips had to admit, almost with terror: the head especially
great; “two grinders' in it, already shot!—Rough-hewn truly, yet
with bulk, with limbs, vigour bidding fair to do honour to the line,
The paternal Marquis, to whom they said, “N'ayez pas peur, Don't
be frightened,” gazed joyful, we can fancy, and not fearful, on
this product of his ; the stiff pedant features relaxing into a
veritable Smile. Smile, O paternal Marquis: the future indeed
“veils sorrow and joy,' one knows not in what proportion ; but
here is a new Riquetti, whom the gods send; with the rudiments
in him, thou wouldst guess, of a very Hercules, fit for Twelve
Labours, which surely are themselves the best joys. Look at the
oaf, how he sprawls. No stranger Riquetti ever sprawled under
our Sun: it is as if, in this thy man-child, Destiny had swept
MIRA.BEAU. 85
together all the wildnesses and strengths of the Riquetti lineage,
and flung him forth as her finale in that kind. Not without a
vocation | He is the last of the Riquettis; and shall do work
long memorable among mortals.
Truly, looking now into the matter, we might say, in spite of
the gossips, that on this whole Planet, in those years, there was
hardly born such a man-child as this same, in the ‘Mansion-house
of Bignon, not far from Paris,' whom they named Gabriel Honoré.
Nowhere, we say, came there a stouter or braver into this Earth;
whither they come marching by the legion and the myriad, out of
Eternity and Night !—Except, indeed, what is notable enough,
one other that arrived some few months later, at the town of
Frankfort on the Maine, and got christened Johann Wolfgang Goethe.
Then again, in some ten years more, there came another, still
liker Gabriel Honoré in his brawny ways. It was into a mean
hut that this one came, an infirm hut (which the wind blew down.
at the time), in the shire of Ayr, in Scotland : him they named
Robert Burns. These, in that epoch, were the Well-born of the
World; by whom the world's history was to be carried on. Ah,
could the well-born of the world be always rightly bred, rightly
entreated there, what a world were it ! But it is not so; it is the
reverse of so. And then few, like that Frankfort one, can peace-
ably vanquish the world, with its black imbroglios; and shine
above it, in serene help to it, like a sun The most can but Titani-
cally vanquish it, or be vanquished by it: hence, instead of light
(stillest and strongest of things), we have but lightning; red fire,
and oftentimes conflagrations, which are very woful.
Be that as it might, Marquis Mirabeau determined to give his
son, and heir of all the Riquettis, such an education as no Riquetti
had yet been privileged with. Being a world-schoolmaster (and.
indeed a Martinus Scriblerus, as we here find, more ways than one),
this was not strange in him ; but the results were very lament-
able. Considering the matter now, at this impartial distance, you
are lost in wonder at the good Marquis; know not whether to:
laugh at him, or weep over him; and on the whole are bound to
do both. A more sufficient product of Nature than this ‘enormous
Gabriel,' as we said, need not have been wished for: ‘beating his
nurse,' but then loving her, and loving the whole world; of large
desire, truly, but desire towards all things, the highest and the
lowest: in other words, a large mass of life in him, a large man
waiting there ! I)oes he not rummage (the rough cub, now ten-
fold rougher by the effect of small-pox) in all places, seeking some-
thing to know ; dive down to the most unheard-of recesses for
papers to read? Does he not, spontaneously, give his hat to &
86 MISCELLANIES.
peasant-boy whose head-gear was defective? He writes the most
Sagacious things, in his fifth year, extempore, at table; setting
forth what ‘Monsieur Moi, Mr. Me,' is bound to do. A rough
strong genuine soul, of the frankest open temper; full of loving
fire and strength; looking out so brisk with his clear hazel eyes,
with his brisk sturdy bulk, what might not fair breeding have
done for him! On so many occasions, one feels as if he needed
nothing in the world but to be well let alone.
But no; the scientific paternal hand must interfere, at every
turn, to assist Nature: the young lion's-whelp has to grow up all
bestrapped, bemuzzled in the most extraordinary manner: shall
wax and unfold himself by theory of education, by square and
rule, going punctual, all the way, like Harrison Clockwork, ac-
cording to the theoretic program ; or else—l O Marquis, World-
schoolmaster, what theory of education is this? No lion's-whelp
or young Mirabeau will go like clockwork, but far otherwise. ‘He
that spareth the rod hateth the child;’ that on its side is true :
and yet Nature, too, is strong: ‘Nature will come running back,
though thou expel her with a fork l’ In one point of view there
is nothing more Hogarthian comic than this long Peter Peebles'
ganging plea of ‘Marquis Mirabeau versus Nature and others: yet
in a deeper point of view it is but too serious. Candid history will
say, that whatsoever of worst it was in the power of art to do
against this young Gabriel Honoré, was done. Not with unkind
intentions; nay, with intentions which, at least, began in kind-
ness. How much better was Burns's education (though this too
went on under the grimmest pressures), on the wild hill-side, by
the brave peasant's hearth, with no theory of education at all, but
poverty, toil, tempest and the handles of the plough
At bottom, the Marquis's wish and purpose was not complex,
but simple. That Gabriel Honoré de Riquetti shall become the
very same man that Victor de Riquetti is; perfect as he is perfect:
this will satisfy the fond father's heart, and nothing short of this.
Better exemplar, truly, were hard to find; and yet, O Victor de
Itiquetti, poor Gabriel, on his side, wishes to be Gabriel and not
Victor | Stiffer loving Pedant never had a more elastic loving
Pupil. Offences (of mere elasticity, mere natural springing-up, for
most part) accumulate by addition: Madame Pailly and the con-
fidential servants, on this as on all matters, are busy. The house-
hold itself is darkening, the mistress of it gone; the Lawsuits, and
by and by Divorce-Lawsuits, have begun. Worse will grow worse,
and ever worse, till Rhadamanthus Scriblerus Marquis de Mira-
beau, swaying vainly the sceptre of order, see himself environed
by a waste chaos as of Bedlam. Stiff is he ; elastic, and yet still
MIRABEAU. 87
loving, reverent, is his son and pupil. Thus cruelty, and yearn-
ings that must be suppressed; indignant revolt, and hot tears of
penitence, alternate, in the strangest way, between the two ; and
for long years our young Alcides has, by Destiny, his own Demon
and Juno de Pailly, Labours enough imposed on him.
But, to judge what a task was set this poor paternal Marquis,
let us listen to the following successive utterances from him;
which he emits, in letter after letter, mostly into the ear of his
brother the good Bailli. Cluck, cluck,--is it not as the sound of
an agitated parent-fowl, now in terror, now in anger, at the brood
it has brought out 2
‘This creature promises to be a very pretty subject.’ ‘Talent in plenty,
and cleverness, but more faults still inherent in the substance of him.’
* Only just come into life, and the extravasation (eactravasement) of the
thing already visible! A spirit cross-grained, fantastic, iracund, incom-
patible, tending towards evil before knowing it, or being capable of it.”
“A high heart under the jacket of a boy; it has a strange instinct of pride
this creature; noble withal; the embryo of a shaggy-headed bully and
killcow, that would swallow all the world, and is not twelve years old yet.'
* A type, profoundly inconceivable, of baseness, sheer dull grossness (plati-
tude absolue), and the quality of your dirty, rough-crusted caterpillar, that
will never uncrust itself or fly.” “An intelligence, a memory, a capacity,
that strike you, that astonish, that frighten you.’ “A nothing bedizened
with crotchets. May fling dust in the eyes of silly women, but will never
be the fourth part of a man, if by good luck he be anything.” “One whom
you may call ill-born, this elder lad of mine; who bodes, at least hitherto,
as if he could become nothing but a madman: almost invincibly maniac,
with all the vile qualities of the maternal stock over and above. As he has
a great many masters, and all, from the confessor to the comrade, are so
many reporters for me, I see the nature of the beast, and don’t think we
shall ever do any good with him.'
In a word, offences (of elasticity or expansivity) have accumu-
lated to such height, in the lad's fifteenth year, that there is a
determination taken, on the part of Rhadamanthus-Scriblerus, to
pack him out of doors, one way or the other. After various plan-
nings, the plan of one Abbé Choquenard's Boarding-school is
fallen upon : the rebellious Expansive shall to Paris; there, under
ferula and short-commons, contract himself and consider. Far-
ther, as the name Mirabeau is honourable and right honourable,
he shall not have the honour of it; never again, but be called
Pierre Buffière, till his ways decidedly alter. This Pierre Buffière
was the name of an estate of his mother's in the Limousin: Sad
fuel of those smoking lawsuits which at length blazed out as
divorce-lawsuits. Wearing this melancholy nickname of Peter
Buffière, as a perpetual badge, had poor Gabriel Honoré to go
about for a number of years; like a misbehaved soldier with his
88 MISCELLANIES.
eyebrows shaven off; alas, only a fifteen-years recruit yet, too
young for that
Nevertheless, named or shorn of his name, Peter or Gabriel,
the youth himself was still there. At Choquenard's Boarding-
school, as always afterwards in life, he carries with him, he un-
folds and employs, the qualities which Nature gave, which no
shearing or shaving of art and mistreatment could take away.
The Fils Adoptif gives a grand list of studies followed, acquisi-
tions made: ancient languages (‘and we have a thousand proofs
of his indefatigable tenacity in this respect); modern languages,
English, Italian, German, Spanish ; then “passionate study of
mathematics;' design, pictorial and geometrical; music, so as to
read it at sight, nay to compose in it; singing, to a high degree ;
‘equitation, fencing, dancing, swimming and tennis: if only the
half of which were true, can we say that Pierre Buffière spent his
time ill ? What is more precisely certain, the disgraced Buffière
worked his way very soon into the good affections of all and
sundry, in this House of Discipline, who came in contact with
him ; schoolfellows, teachers, the Abbé Choquenard himself. For,
said the paternal Marquis, he has the tongue of the Old Serpent
In fact, it is very notable how poor Buffière, Comte de Mirabeau,
revolutionary King Riquetti, or whatever else they might call him,
let him come, under what discommendation he might, into any
circle of men, was sure to make them his erelong. To the last, no
man could look into him with his own eyes, and continue to hate
him. He could talk men over, then 2 Yes, O Reader: and he
could act men over: for, at bottom, that was it. The large open
Soul of the man, purposing deliberately no paltry, unkindly or dis-
honest thing towards any creature, was felt to be withal a brother's
soul. Defaced by black drossy obscurations very many; but yet
shining out, lustrous, warm ; in its troublous effulgence, great
That a man be loved the better by men the nearer they come to
him : is not this the fact of all facts 2 To know what extent of
prudential diplomacy (good, indifferent and even bad) a man has,
ask public opinion, journalistic rumour, or at most the persons he
dines with : to know what of real worth is in him, ask infinitely
deeper and farther; ask, first of all, those who have tried by ex-
periment; who, were they the foolishest people, can answer per-
tinently here if anywhere. “Those at a distance esteem of me a
little worse than I; those near at hand a little better than I:’ so
said the good Sir Thomas Browne; so will all men say who have
much to say on that.
The Choquemard Military Boarding-school having, if not ful.
filled its function, yet ceased to be a house of penance, and failed
MIRABEAU. - 89
of its function, Marquis Mirabeau determined to try the Army.
Nay, it would seem, the wicked mother has been privily sending
him money; which he, the traitor, has accepted To the army
therefore. And so Pierre Buffière has a basnet on his big head;
the shaggy pock-pitted visage looks martially from under horse-
hair and clear metal; he dresses rank, with tight bridle hand and
drawn falchion, in the town of Saintes, as a bold volunteer dra-
goon. His age was but eighteen as yet, and some months.
The people of Saintes grew to like him amazingly; would even
‘have lent him money to any extent.’ His Colonel, one De Lam-
bert, proved to be a martinet, of sharp sour temper : the shaggy
visage of Buffière, radiant through its seaminess with several
things, had not altogether the happiness to content him. Further-
more there was an Archer (Bailiff) at Saintes, who had a daughter:
she, foolish minx, liked the Buffière visage better even than the
Colonel's For one can fancy what a pleader Buffière was, in this
great cause; with the tongue of the Old Serpent. It was his first
amourette ; plainly triumphant: the beginning of a quite unheard-
of career in that kind. The aggrieved Colonel emitted ‘satires’
through the mess-rooms; this bold volunteer dragoon was not the
man to give him worse than he brought: matters fell into a very
unsatisfactory state between them. To crown the whole, Buffière
went one evening (contrary to wont, now and always) to the
gaming-table, and lost four louis. Insubordination, gambling,
Archer's daughter! Rhadamanthus thunders from Bignon : Buf.
fière doffs his basnet, flies covertly to Paris. Negotiation there
now was ; confidential spy to Saintes; correspondence, fulmina-
tion ; Dupont de Nemours as daysman between a Colonel and a
Marquis, both in high wrath, Buffière to pay the piper'ſ Confi-
dential spy takes evidence ; the whole atrocity comes to light:
what wilt thou do, O Marquis, with this devil's child of thine 2
Send him to Surinam; let the Tropical heats and rains tame the
hot liver of him —so whispered paternal Brutus' justice and Dame
Pailly; but milder thoughts prevailed. Lettre de Cachet and the
Isle of Rhé shall be tried first. Thither fares poor Buffière; not
with Archer's daughters, but with Archers; amid the dull rustle
and autumnal brown of the falling leaves of 1768, his nineteenth
autumn. It is his second Hercules' Labour; the Choquenard
Boarding-house was the first. Bemoaned by the loud Atlantic he
shall sit there, in winter season, under ward of a Bailli d'Aulan,
governor of the place, and said to be a very Cerberus.
At Rhé the old game is played: in few weeks, the Cerberus
Bailli is Buffière's; baying, out of all his throats, in Buffière's
behalf! What ‘sorcery’ is this that the rebellious prodigy has in
90 MISCELLANIES.
him, O Marquis? Hypocrisy, cozenage, which no governor of
strong places can resist? Nothing short of the hot swamps of
Surinam will hold him quiet, then? Happily there is fighting in
Corsica; Paoli fighting on his last legs there; and Baron de Vaux
wants fresh troops against him. Buffière, though he likes not the
cause, will go thither gladly; and fight his very best: how happy
if, by any fighting, he can conquer back his baptismal name, and
some gleam of paternal tolerance After much soliciting, his
prayer is acceded to : Buffière, with the rank now of ‘Sub-lieu-
tenant of Foot, in the Legion of Lorraine,' gets across the country
to Toulon, in the month of April; and enters ‘on the plain which
‘ furrows itself without plough' (euphuistic for ocean): ‘God grant,
‘ he may not have to row there one day,'—in red cap, as convict
galley-slave | Such is the paternal benediction and prayer; which
was realised. Nay, Buffière, it would seem, before quitting Ro-
chelle, indeed ‘hardly yet two hours out of the fortress of Rhé,'
had fallen into a new atrocity,+his first duel; a certain quondam
messmate (discharged for Swindling) having claimed acquaintance
with him on the streets; which claim Buffière saw good to refuse ;
and even to resist, when demanded at the sword's point | The
‘Corsican Buccaneer, flibustier Corse,' that he is
The Corsican Buccaneer did, as usual, a giant's or two giants'
work in Corsica ; fighting, writing, loving; ‘ eight hours a-day of
study;’ and gained golden opinions from all manner of men and
women. It was his own notion that Nature had meant him for a
soldier; he felt so equable and at home in that business, the
wreck of discordant death-tumult, and roar of cannon, serving as a
fine regulatory marching-music for him. Doubtless Nature meant
him for a Man of Action; as she means all great souls that have a
strong body to dwell in : but Nature will adjust herself to much.
In the course of twelve months, in May 1770, Buffière gets back to
Toulon; with much manuscript in his pocket; his head full of
military and all other lore, ‘like a library turned topsy-turvy;’ his
character much risen, as we said, with every one. The brave
Bailli Mirabeau, though almost against principle, cannot refuse to
see a chief nephew, as he passes so near the old Castle on the
Durance: the good uncle is charmed with him ; finds, “under
features terribly seamed and altered from what they were,' bodily
and mentally all that is royal and strong, nay ‘an expression of
something refined, something gracious ;’ declares him, after several
days of incessant talk, to be the best fellow on earth if well dealt
with, “who will shape into statesman, generalissimo, pope, what
thou pleasest to desire l’ Or, shall we give poor Buffière's testi-
monial in mess-room dialect; in its native twanging vociferosity,
MIRA.BEAU. 91
and garnished with old oaths, which, alas, have become for us
almost old prayers now, the vociferous Moustachio-figures whom
they twanged through, having all vanished so long since: “Mor-
blew, Monsieur l'Abbé ; c'est un garçon diablement wif; mais c'est un
bon garçon, qui a de l'esprit comme trois cent mille diables ; et parbleu,
un homme trés brave.”
Moved by all manner of testimonials and entreaties from uncle
and family, the rigid Marquis consents, not without difficulty, to
see this anomalous Peter Buffière of his ; and then, after solemn
deliberation, even to un-Peter him, and give him back his name.
It was in September that they met ; at Aiguesperse, in the Limou-
sin near the lands of Pierre Buffière. Soft ruth comes stealing
through the Rhadamanthine heart; tremblings of faint hope even,
which, however, must veil itself in austerity and rigidity. The
Marquis writes: ‘I perorate him very much ;' observe “my man,
‘ how he droops his nose, and looks fixedly, a sign that he is re-
‘flecting; or whirls away his head, hiding a tear: serious, now
‘ mild, now severe, we give it him alternately ; it is thus I manage
“ the mouth of this fiery animal.' Had he but read the Ephé-
mérides, the Economiques, the Précis des Elémens (‘the most laboured
book I have done, though I wrote it in such health'); had he but
got grounded in my Political Economy Which, however, he does
not take to with any heart. On the contrary, he unhappily finds
it hollow, pragmatical, a barren jingle of formulas; pedantic even;
unnutritive as the east wind. Blasphemous words; which (or the
like of them) any eaves-dropper has but to report to ‘the Master l’
—And yet, after all, is it not a brave Gabriel this rough-built young
Hercules; and has finished handsomely his Second Labour 2 The
head of the fellow is ‘a wind-mill and fire-mill of ideas.' The War-
office makes him captain, and he is passionate for following soldier-
ship : but then, unluckily, your Alexander needs such tools; a
whole world for workshop ! “Where are the armies and herring-
shoals of men to come from ? Does he think I have money,
snuffles the old Marquis, ‘to get him up battles like Harlequin
and Scaramouch’’ The fool! he shall settle down into rurality;
first, however, though it is a risk, see a little of Paris. -
At Paris, through winter, the brave Gabriel carries all before
him ; shines in saloons, in the Versailles CEil-de-Boeuf; dines with
your Duke of Orleans (young Chartres, not yet become Egalité,
hob-nobbing with him); dines with your Guéménés, Broglies, and
mere Grandeurs; and is invited to hunt. Even the old women
are charmed with him, and rustle in their satins: such a light has
not risen in the CEil-de-Boeuf for some while. Grant, O Marquis,
that there are worse sad-dogs than this. The Marquis grants par-
92 MISC ELLANIES.
tially; and yet, and yet! Few things are notabler than these suc-
cessive Surveys by the old Marquis, critically scanning his young
Count :
‘I am on my guard; remembering how vivacity of head may deceive
you as to a character of morass (de tourbe): but, all considered, one must
give him store of exercise; what the devil else to do with such exuberance,
intellectual and sanguineous 2 I know no woman but the Empress of
Russia with whom this man were good to marry yet.” “Hard to find a dog
(dróle) that had more talent and action in the head of him than this ; he
would reduce the devil to terms.’ ‘Thy nephew Whirlwind (l'Ouragan)
assists me; yesterday the valet Luce, who is a sort of privileged simpleton,
Said pleasantly, “Confess, M. le Comte, a man's body is very unhappy to
carry a head like that.” “The terrible gift of familiarity (as Pope Gre-
gory called it)! He turns the great people here round his finger.’—Or
again, though all this is some years afterwards: “They have never done
telling me that he is easy to set a-rearing; that you cannot speak to him
reproachfully but his eyes, his lips, his colour testify that all is giving way;
on the other hand, the smallest word of tenderness will make him burst
into tears, and he would fling himself into the fire for you.’ “I pass my
life in cramming him (à le bowrrer) with principles, with all that I know;
for this man, ever the same as to his fundamental properties, has done no-
thing by these long and solid studies but augment the rubbish-heap in his
head, which is a library turned topsy-turvy; and then his talent for daz-
zling by superficials, for he has swallowed all formulas, and cannot substan-
tiate anything.” “A wicker-basket, that lets all through; disorder born ;
credulous as a nurse; indiscreet; a liar' (kind of white liar), “by exaggera-
tion, affirmation, effrontery, without need, and merely to tell histories; a
confidence that dazzles you on everything; cleverness and talent without
limit. For the rest, the vices have infinitely less root in him than the vir-
tues; all is facility, impetuosity, ineffectuality (not for want of fire, but of
plan); wrong-spun, ravelled (défauftlé) in character: a mind that medi-
tates in the vague, and builds of soap-bells.’ “Spite of the bitter ugliness,
the intercadent step, the trenchant breathless blown-up precipitation, and
the look, or, to say better, the atrocious eyebrow of this man when he listens
and reflects, something told me that it was all but a scarecrow of old cloth,
this ferocious outward garniture of his ; that, at bottom, here was perhaps
the man in all France least capable of deliberate wickedness.’ “Pie and
jay by instinct.” “Wholly reflex and reverberance (tout de reflet et de ré-
verbère); drawn to the right by his heart, to the left by his head, which
he carries four paces from him.’ ‘May become the Coryphaeus of the
Time.’ ‘A blinkard (myope) precipitancy, born with him, which makes
him take the quagmire for firm earth—
—Cluck, cluck,--in the name of all the gods, what prodigy is this
I have hatched ? Web-footed, broad-billed; which will run and
drown itself, if Mercy and the parent-fowl prevent not
How inexpressibly true, meanwhile, is this that the old Mar-
quis says: “He has swallowed all formulas (il a humé toutes les for-
mules), and made away with them | Formulas, indeed, if we think
of it, Formulas and Gabriel Honoré had been, and were to be, at
death-feud from first to last. What formula of this formalised (es-
tablished) world had been a kind one to Gabriel? His soul could
MIRA.BEAU. 93
find no shelter in them, they were unbelievable; his body no so-
lacement, they were tyrannical, unfair. If there were not pabulum
and substance beyond formulas, and in spite of them, them woe to
him . To this man formulas would yield no existence or habita-
tion, if it were not in the Isle of Rhé and such places; but threat-
ened to choke the life out of him : either formulas or he must go
to the wall; and so, after a tough fight, they, as it proves, will go.
So cunningly thrifty is Destiny; and is quietly shaping her tools
for the work they are to do, whilst she seems but spoiling and
breaking them | For, consider, O Marquis, whether France her-
self will not, by and by, have to swallow a formula or two 2 This
sight thou lookest on from the baths of Mount d'Or, does it not
bode something of that kind 2 A summer day in the year 1777 ;
“O Madame ! the narrations I would give you, if I had not a score of
letters to answer, on dull sad business! I would paint to you the votive
feast of this town, which took place on the 14th. The Savages descending
in torrents from the Mountains,—our people ordered not to stir out. The
curate with surplice and stole; public justice in periwig; maréchaussée,
sabre in hand, guarding the place, before the bagpipes were permitted to
begin. The dance interrupted, a quarter of an hour after, by battle; the
cries and fierce hissings of the children, of the infirm, and other onlookers,
ogling it, tarring it on, as the mob does when dogs fight. Frightful men,
or rather wild creatures of the forest, in coarse woollen jupes, and broad
girths of leather studded with copper nails; of gigantic stature, heightened
by the high sabots; rising still higher on tip-toe, to look at the battle;
beating time to it; rubbing their sides with their elbows: their face hag-
gard, covered with their long greasy hair; top of the visage waxing pale,
bottom of it twisting itself into the rudiments of a cruel laugh, a ferocious
impatience.—And these people pay the taille / And you want to take from
them their salt too ! And you know not what you strip bare, or, as you call
it, govern; what, with the heedless, cowardly squirt of your pen, you will
think you can continue stripping with impunity forever, till the Catastrophe
come ! Such sights recall deep thoughts to one. “Poor Jean-Jacques l’”
I said to myself: “they that sent thee, and thy System, to copy music
among such a People as these same, have confuted thy System but ill!”
But, on the other hand, these thoughts were consolatory for a man who
has all his life preached the necessity of solacing the poor, of universal
instruction; who has tried to show what such instruction and such solace-
ment ought to be, if it would form a barrier (the sole possible barrier) be-
tween oppression and revolt; the sole but the infallible treaty of peace
between the high and the low ! Ah, Madame ! this government by blind-
man's-buff, stumbling along too far, will end by the GENERAL OVERTURN.'
Prophetic Marquis –Might other nations listem to thee better
than France did : for it concerns them all ! But now is it not cu-
rious to think how the whole world might have gone so differently,
but for this very prophet? Had the young Mirabeau had a father
as other men have ; or even no father at all ! Consider him, in
that case, rising by natural gradation, by the rank, the opportunity.
94. MISCELLANIES.
the irrepressible buoyant faculties he had, step after step, to offi-
cial place,—to the chief official place; as in a time when Turgots,
Neckers, and men of ability, were grown indispensable, he was
sure to have done. By natural witchery he bewitches Marie An-
toinette; her most of all, with her quick susceptive instincts, her
quick sense for whatever was great and noble, her quick hatred for
whatever was but pedantic, Neckerish, Fayettish, and pretending
to be great. King Louis is a nullity; happily then reduced to be
one : there would then have been at the summit of France the one
French Man who could have grappled with that great Question;
who, yielding and refusing, managing, guiding, and, in short, 366-
ing and daring what was to be done, had perhaps saved France
her Revolution; remaking her by peaceabler methods ! But to
the Supreme Powers it seemed not so. Once after a thousand
years all nations were to see the great Conflagration and Self-com-
bustion of a Nation,-and learn from it if they could. And now,
for a Swallower of Formulas, was there a better schoolmaster in
the world than this very Friend of Men; a better education con-
ceivable than this which Alcides-Mirabeau had 2 Trust in Heaven,
good reader, for the fate of nations, for the fall of a sparrow.
Gabriel Honoré has acquitted himself so well in Paris, turning
the great people round his thumb, with that fond gaillard, basis
of gaiety,’ with that “terrible don de la familiarité;’ with those ways
he has. Neither, in the quite opposite Man-of-business depart-
ment, when summer comes and rurality with it, is he found want-
ing. In the summer of the year, the old Friend of Men despatches
him to the Limousin, to his own estate of Pierre Buffière, or his
wife's own estate (under the law-balance about this time), to see
whether anything can be done for men there. Much is to be
done there; the Peasants, short of all things, even of victuals,
here as everywhere, wear ‘a settled souffre-douleur (pain-stricken)
“look, as if they reckoned that the pillage of men was an inevit-
‘able ordinance of Heaven, to be put up with like the wind and
‘the hail.' Here, in the solitude of the Limousin, Gabriel is still
Gabriel: he rides, he writes and runs; eats out of the poor people's
pots; speaks to them, redresses them ; institutes a court of Villa-
ger ‘prudhommes, good men and true,'—once more carries all before
him. Confess, O Rhadamanthine Marquis, we say again, that there
are worse sad-dogs than this ‘He is,' confesses the Marquis, ‘the
Demon of the Impossible, le démon de la chose impossible.” Most
true this also: impossible is a word not in his dictionary. Thus the
same Gabriel Honoré, long afterwards (as Dumont will witness),
* See La Fontaine: Contes, l. iv. c. 15.
MIRA.BEAU. 95
orders his secretary to do some miracle or other, miraculous within
the time. The secretary answers, “Monsieur, it is impossible.”
“Impossible?” answers Gabriel: “Ne me dites jamais ce béte de
mot, Never name to me that blockhead of a word ' " Really, one
would say, a good fellow, were he well dealt with, though still
broad-billed, and with latent tendencies to take the water. The
following otherwise insignificant Letter, addressed to the Bailli,
seems to us worth copying. Is not his young Lordship, if still
in the dandy-state and style-of-mockery, very handsome in it;
standing there in the snow 2 It is of date December 1771, and far
onwards on the road towards Mirabeau Castle :
* Fracti bello satisque repulsi ductores Danaim : here, dear uncle, is a
beginning in good Latin, which means that I am broken with fatigue, not
having, this whole week, slept more than sentinels do; and sounding, at the
same time, with the wheels of my vehicle, most of the ruts and jolts that
lie between Paris and Marseilles. Ruts deep and numerous. Moreover,
my axle broke between Mucreau, Romané, Chambertin and Beaune; the
centre of four wine districts: what a geographical point, if I had had the
wit to be a drunkard | The mischief happened towards five in the even-
ing; my lackey had gone on before. There fell nothing at the time but
melted snow; happily it afterwards took some consistency. The neigh-
bourhood of Beaune made me hope to find genius in the natives of the
country: I had need of good counsel ; the devil counselled me at first
to swear, but that whim passed, and I fell by preference into the tempta-
tion of laughing; for a holy priest came jogging up, wrapt to the chin ;
against the blessed visage of whom the sleet was beating, which made him
cut so singular a face, that I think this was the thing drove me from Swear-
ing. The holy man inquired, seeing my chaise on its beam-ends, and one
of the wheels wanting, whether anything had befallen 2 I answered, “there
was nothing falling here but snow.” “Ah,” said he, ingeniously, “it is your
chaise, then, that is broken.” I admired the sagacity of the man, and
begged him to double his pace, with his horse's permission (who was also
making a pleasant expression of countenance, as the Snow beat on his
nose); and to be so good as give notice at Chaigny that I was there. He
assured me he would tell it to the postmistress herself, she being his
cousin; that she was a very amiable woman, married three years ago to
one of the honestest men of the place, nephew to the king's procureur at
: in fine, after giving me all the outs and ins of himself, the curate,
of his cousin, his cousin's husband, and I know not whom more, he was
pleased to give the spurs to his horse, which thereupon gave a grunt, and
went on. I forgot to tell you that I had sent the postilion off to Mucreau,
which he knew the road to, for he went thither daily, he said, to have a
glass; a thing I could well believe, or even two glasses. The man was but
tipsified when he went ; happily, when he returned, which was very late, he
was drunk. I walked sentry: several Beaune men passed, all of whom
asked me, if anything had befallen 2 I answered one of them, that it was
an experiment; that I had been sent from Paris to see whether a chaise
would run with one wheel; mine had come so far, but I was going to write
that two wheels were preferable. At this moment my worthy friend struck
his shin against the other wheel; clapped his hand on the hurt place;
swore, as I had near done; and then said, smiling, “Ah, Monsieur, there
96 MISCELLANIES.
is the other wheel!” “The devil there is!” said I, as if astonished. An-
other, after examining long, with a very capable air, informed me, “Ma
foi, Monsieur ! it is your essi" (meaning essieu, or axle) “that is broken.”
Mirabeau's errand to Provence, in this winter-season, was
Several-fold. To look after the Mirabeau estates; to domesticate
himself among his people and peers in that region;–perhaps to
choose a wife. Lately, as we saw, the old Marquis could think of
none suitable, if it were not the Empress Catherine. But Gabriel
has ripened astonishingly since that, under this sunshine of pater-
nal favour, the first gleam of such weather he has ever had.
Short of the Empress, it were very well to marry, the Marquis now
thinks, provided your bride had money. A bride, not with money,
yet with connexions, expectations, is found; and by stormy elo-
quence (Marquis seconding) is carried : woe worth the hour ! Her
portrait, by the seconding Marquis himself, is not very captivating:
‘Marie-Emilie de Covet, only daughter of the Marquis de Marig-
‘ name, in her eighteenth year then ; she had a very ordinary face,
‘ even a vulgar one at the first glance; brown, may almost tawny
‘ (mauricaud); fine eyes, fine hair; teeth not good, but a prettyish
‘continual smile ; figure small, but agreeable, though leaning a
‘little to one side ; showed great sprightliness of mind, ingenuous,
“adroit, delicate, lively, sportful; one of the most essentially
‘pretty characters.’ This brown, almost tawny little woman, much
of a fool too, Mirabeau gets to wife, on the 22d of June 1772. With
her, and with a pension of 3,000 francs from his father-in-law, and
one of 6,000 from his own father (say 500l. in all), and rich expect-
ancies, he shall sit down, in the bottom of Provence, by his own
hired hearth, in the town of Aix, and bless Heaven.
Candour will admit that this young Alexander, just beginning
his twenty-fourth year, might grumble a little, seeing only one such
world to conquer. However, he had his books, he had his hopes;
health, faculty; a Universe (whereof even the town of Aix formed
part) all rich with fruit and forbidden-fruit round him; the un-
speakable “seed-field of Time' wherein to sow : he said to himself,
Go to, I will be wise. And yet human nature is frail. One can
judge too, whether the old Marquis, now coming into decided law-
suit with his wife, was of a humour to forgive peccadilloes. The
terrible, hoarsely calm, Rhadamanthine way in which he expresses
himself on this matter of the lawsuit to his brother, and enjoins
silence from all mortals but him, might affect weak nerves; where-
fore, contrary to purpose, we omit it. O just Marquis In fact,
the Riquetti household, at this time, can do little for frail human
nature; except, perhaps, make it fall faster. The Riquetti house-
hold is getting scattered; not always led asunder, but driven
MIRABEAU. 97
and hurled asunder: the tornado times for it have begun. One
daughter is Madame du Saillant (still living), a judicious sis-
ter: another is Madame de Cabris, not so judicious ; for, indeed,
her husband has lawsuits, owing to ‘defamatory couplets' pro-
ceeding from him; she gets “insulted on the public promenade of
Grasse,' by a certain Baron de Villeneuve-Moans, whom some de-
famatory couplet had touched upon ;-all the parties in the busi-
ness being fools. Nay, poor woman, she by and by, we find, takes
up with preternuptial persons; with a certain Brianson in epau-
lettes, described candidly, by the Fils Adoptif, as “a man who'—is
not fit to be described. :
A young heir-apparent of all the Mirabeaus is required to make
some figure; especially in marrying himself. The present young
heir-apparent has nothing to make a figure with but bare five-hun-
dred a-year, and very considerable debts. Old Mirabeau is hard
as the Mosaic rock, and no wand proves miraculous on him ; for
trousseaus, cadeaus, foot-washings, festivities and house-heatings, he
does simply not yield one sou. The heir must himself yield
them. He does so, and handsomely: but, alas, the five-hundred
a-year, and very considerable debts? Quit Aix and dinner-giving;
retire to the old Château in the gorge of two valleys Devised and
done. But now, a young Wife used to the delicacies of life, ought
she not to have some suite of rooms done-up for her? Upholster-
ers hammer and furbish; with effect ; not without bills. Then the
very considerable Jew-debts Poor Mirabeau sees nothing for it,
but to run to the father-in-law with tears in his eyes ; and conjure
him to make those ‘rich expectations' in some measure fruitions.
Forty-thousand francs; to such length will the father-in-law, moved
by these tears, by this fire-eloquence, table ready-money; provided
old Marquis Mirabeau, who has some provisional reversionary in-
terest in the thing, will grant quittance. Old Marquis Mirabeau,
written to in the most impassioned persuasive manner, answers by
a letter, of the sort they call Sealed Letter (Lettre de Cachet), order-
ing the impassioned Persuasive, under his Majesty's hand and
seal, to bundle into Coventry as we should say, into Manosque as
the Sealed Letter says l—Farewell, thou old Château, with thy up-
holstered rooms, on thy sheer rock, by the angry-flowing Durance:
welcome, thou miserable little borough of Manosque, since hither
Fate drives us! In Manosque, too, a man can live, and read; can
write an Essai sur le Despotisme (and have it printed in Switzer-
land, 1774); full of fire and rough vigour, and still worth reading.
The Essay on Despotism, with so little of the Ephémérides and
Quesnay in it, could find but a hard critic in the old Marquis ;
snuffling-out something (one fancies) about “Reflex and reverber-
WOL. IV. H
98 MISCE LIANIES.
ance;’ formulas getting swallowed; rash hairbrain treating matters
that require age and gravity:-however, let it pass. Unhappily
there came other offences. A certain gawk, named Chevalier de
Gassaud, accustomed to visit in the house at Manosque, sees good
to commence a kind of theoretic flirtation with the little brown
Wife, which she theoretically sees good to return. Billet meets
billet; glance follows glance, crescendo allegro ;-till the Husband
opens his lips, volcano-like, with a proposal to kick Chevalier de
Gassaud out of doors. Chevalier de Gassaud goes unkicked, but
not without some explosion or éclat : there is like to be a duel;
only that Gassaud, knowing what a sword this Riquetti wears,
will not fight; and his father has to plead and beg. Generous
Count, kill not my poor son: alas, already this most lamentable
explosion itself has broken-off the finest marriage-settlement, and
now the family will not hear of him The generous Count, so
pleaded with, not only flings the duel to the winds, but gallops
off, forgetful of the Lettre de Cachet, half desperate, to plead with
the marriage-family; to preach with them, and pray, till they have
taken poor Gassaud into favour again. Prosperous in this, for
nothing can resist such pleading, he may now ride home more
leisurely, with the consciousness of a right action for once.
As we hint, this ride of his lies beyond the limits fixed in the
royal Sealed Letter; but no one surely will mind it, no one will
report it. A beautiful summer evening: O poor Gabriel, it is the
last peaceably prosperous ride thou shalt have for long-perhaps
almost ever in the world ! For lo ! who is this that comes cur-
ricling through the level yellow sunlight; like one of Respecta-
bility, keeping his gig 2 By Day and Night ! it is that base Baron,
de Villeneuve-Moans, who insulted Sister Cabris in the promenade
of Grasse ! Human nature, without time for reflection, is liable
to err. The swift-rolling gig is already in contact with one, the
horse rearing against your horse; and you dismount, almost with-
out knowing. Satisfaction which gentlemen expect, Monsieur !
No 2 Do I hear rightly No? In that case, Monsieur—And this
wild Gabriel (horresco referens !) clutches the respectable Villeneuve-
Moans; and horsewhips him there, not emblematically only, but
practically, on the king's highway: seen of some peasants | Here
is a message for Rumour to blow abroad.
Rumour blows, to Paris as elsewhither: for answer, on the
26th of June 1774, there arrives a fresh Sealed Letter of more
emphasis; there arrive with it grim catchpoles and their chaise.
the Swallower of Formulas, snatched away from his wife, from his
child then dying, from his last shadow of a home, even an exiled
home, is trundling towards Marseilles; towards the Castle of If,
MIRA.BEAU. 99
which frowns-out among the waters in the roadstead there ! Girt
with the blue Mediterranean; within iron stanchions; cut-off from
pen, paper, and friends, and men, except the Cerberus of the place,
who is charged to be very sharp with him, there shall he sit: such
virtue is in a Sealed Letter; so has the grim old Marquis ordered
it. Our gleam of sunshine, then, is darkening miserably down 2
Down, O thou poor Mirabeau, to thick midnight! Surely Formulas
are all-too cruel on thee : thou art getting really into war with
Formulas (terriblest of wars); and thou, by God's help and the
Devil's, wilt make away with them,-in the terriblest manner
From this hour, we say, thick and thicker darkness settles round
poor Gabriel; his life-path growing ever painfuller; alas, growing
ever more devious, beset by ignes fatui, and lights not of Heaven.
Such Alcides’ Labours have seldom been allotted to any man.
Check thy hot frenzy, thy hot tears, poor Mirabeau; adjust
thyself as it may be ; for there is no help. Autumn becomes loud
winter, revives into gentle spring: the waves beat round the Castle
of If, at the mouth of Marseilles harbour; girdling in the unhap-
piest man. No, not the unhappiest : poor Gabriel has such a
* fond gaillard, basis of joy and gaiety;’ there is a deep fiery life
in him, which no blackness of destiny can quench. The Cerberus
of If, M. Dallègre, relents, as all Cerberuses do with him ; gives
paper, gives sympathy and counsel. Nay letters have already
been introduced; “buttoned in some scoundrel's gaiters,’ the old
Marquis says On Sister du Saillant's kind letter there fall “tears;’
nevertheless you do not always weep. You do better; write a
brave Col-d'Argent's Memoirs (quoted-from above); occupy your-
self with projects and efforts. Sometimes, alas, you do worse,
though in the other direction,--where Canteen-keepers have pretty
wives | A mere peccadillo this of the frail fair Cantinière (accord-
ing to the Fils Adoptif); of which too much was made at the
time.—Nor are juster consolations wanting; sisters and brothers
bidding you be of hope. Our readers have heard Count Mirabeau
designated as ‘the elder of my lads:’ what if we now exhibited the
younger for one moment 2 The Maltese Chevalier de Mirabeau,
a rough son of the sea in those days: he also is a sad dog, but has
the advantage of not being the elder. He has started from Malta,
from a sick-bed, and got hither to Marseilles, in the dead of win-
ter; the link of Nature drawing him, shaggy sea-monster as he is.
“It was a rough wind; none of the boatmen would leave the quay with
me : I induced two of them, more by bullyings than by money; for thou
knowest I have no money, and am well furnished, thank God, with the gift
of speaking or stuttering. I reach the Castle of If: gates closed; and the :
Lieutenant, as M. Dallègre was not there, tells me quite sweetly that I s
must return as I came. “ Not, if you please, till I have seen Gabriel.”.
sº
©
º
100 MISCELLANIES.
i
sº
&
“It is not allowed.”—“I will write to him.” “ Not that either.”—“Then
I will wait for M. Dallègre.” “Just so; but for four-and-twenty hours,
not more.” Whereupon I take my resolution; I go to La Mouret' (the
Canteen-keeper's pretty wife); ‘we agree that so soon as the tattoo is beat,
I shall see this poor devil. I get to him, in fact ; not like a paladin, but
like a pickpocket or a gallant, which thou wilt; and we unbosom ourselves.
They had been afraid that he would heat my head to the temperature of
his own: Sister Cabris, they do him little justice; I can assure thee that
while he was telling me his story, and when my rage broke out in these
words: “Though still weakly, I have two arms, strong enough to break
M. Villeneuve-Moans's, or his cowardly persecuting brother's at least,” he
said to me, “Mon ami, thou wilt ruin us both.” And, I confess, this com-
sideration alone, perhaps, hindered the execution of a project, which could
not have profited, which nothing but the fermentation of a head such as
mine could excuse.” -
Reader, this tarry young Maltese Chevalier is the Vicomte de
Mirabeau, or Younger Mirabeau; whom all men heard of in the
Revolution time, oftenest by the more familiar name of Mirabeau-
Tonneau, or Barrel Mirabeau, from his bulk, and the quantity of
drink he usually held. It is the same Barrel Mirabeau who, in
the States-General, broke his sword, because the Noblesse gave-
in, and chivalry was now ended: for in politics he was directly
the opposite of his elder brother; and spoke considerably as a
public man, making men laugh (for he was a wild Surly fellow,
with much wit in him and much liquor);-then went indignantly
across the Rhine, and drilled Emigrant Regiments: but as he sat
one morning in his tent, sour of stomach doubtless and of heart,
meditating in Tartarean humour on the turn things took, a cer-
tain captain or subaltern demands admittance on business; is
refused; again demands, and then again, till the Colonel Wiscount
Barrel Mirabeau, blazing-up into a mere burning brandy-barrel,
clutches his sword, and tumbles-out on this canaille of an in-
truder, alas, on the canaille of an intruder's sword-point (who
drew with swift dexterity), and dies, and it is all done with him
That was the fifth act of Barrel Mirabeau’s life-tragedy, unlike,
and yet like, this first act in the Castle of If; and so the curtain
fell, the Newspapers calling it “apoplexy' and ‘alarming accident.’
Brother and Sisters, the little brown Wife, the Cerberus of If,
all solicit for a penitent unfortunate sinner. The old Marquis's
ear is deaf as that of Destiny. Solely by way of variation, not of
alleviation, the rather as the If Cerberus too has been bewitched,
he has this sinner removed, in May next, after some nine-months
space, to the Castle of Joux; an ‘old owl's nest, with a few in-
valids,' among the Jura Mountains. Instead of melancholy main,
let him now try the melancholy granites (still capped with snow
*
.. | Wol. ii. p. 43.
MIRA.BEAU. 101
at this season), with their mists and owlets; and on the whole
adjust himself as if for permanence or continuance there; on a
pension of 1,200 francs, fifty pounds a-year, since he could not do
with five-hundred Poor Mirabeau;-and poor Mirabeau's Wife?
Reader, the foolish little brown woman tires of soliciting: her
child being buried, her husband buried alive, and her little brown
self being still above ground and under twenty, she takes to re-
creation, theoretic flirtation; ceases soliciting, begins successful
forgetting. The marriage, cut asunder that day the catchpole
chaise drew-up at Manosque, will never come together again, in
spite of efforts; but flow onwards in two separate streams, to lose
itself in , the frightfullest sand-deserts. Husband and wife never
more saw each other with eyes.
Not far from the melancholy Castle of Joux lies the little melan-
choly borough of Pontarlier; whither our Prisoner has leave, on
his parole, to walk when he chooses. A melancholy little borough :
yet in it is a certain Monnier Household ; whereby hangs, and
will hang, a tale. Of old M. Monnier, respectable legal President,
now in his seventy-fifth year, we shall say less than of his wife,
Sophie Monnier (once de Ruffey, from Dijon, sprung from legal
Presidents there), who is still but short way out of her teens.
Yet she has been married, or seemed to be married, four years:
one of the loveliest sad-heroic women of this or any district of
country. What accursed freak of Fate brought January and May
together here once again? Alas, it is a custom there, good reader'
Thus the old Naturalist Buffon, who, at the age of sixty-three
(what is called ‘the Saint-Martin's summer of incipient dotage
and new-myrtle garlands,’ which visits some men), went ransack-
ing the country for a young wife, had very nearly got this identical
Sophie; but did get another, known as Madame de Buffon, well
known to Philip Egalité, having turned out ill. Sophie de Ruffey
loved wise men, but not at that extremely advanced period of life.
However, the question for her is: Does she love a Convent better?
Her mother and father are rigidly devout, and rigidly vain and
poor: the poor girl, sad-heroic, is probably a kind of freethinker.
And now, old President Monnier ‘quarrelling with his daughter;’
and then coming over to Pontarlier with gold-bags, marriage-settle-
ments, and the prospect of dying soon ? It is that same miserable
tale, often sung against, often spoken against; very miserable
indeed —But fancy what an effect the fiery eloquence of a Mira-
beau produced in this sombre Household: one's young girl-dreams
incarnated, most unexpectedly, in this wild-glowing mass of man-
hood, though Tather ugly ; old Monnier himself gleaming-up into
102 MISCELLANTES,
a kind of vitality to hear him Or fancy whether a sad-heroic
face, glancing on you with a thankfulness like to become glad:
heroic, were not ? Mirabeau felt, by known symptoms, that,
the sweetest, fatallest incantation was stealing over him, which
could lead only to the devil, for all parties interested. He wrote
to his wife, entreating in the name of Heaven, that she would
come to him : thereby might the ‘sight of his duties' fortify
him; he meanwhile would at least forbear Pontarlier. The wife
“answered by a few icy lines, indicating, in a covert way, that she
‘ thought me not in my wits.' He ceases forbearing Pontarlier ;
sweeter is it than the owl's nest : he returns thither, with sweeter
and ever sweeter welcome ; and so—1– -
Old Monnier saw nothing, or winked hard ;-not so our old
foolish Commandant of the Castle of Joux. He, though kind to
his prisoner formerly, “ had been making some pretensions to
* Sophie himself; he was but forty or five-and-forty years older
‘ than I; my ugliness was not greater than his ; and I had the
‘advantage of being an honest man.' Green-eyed Jealousy, in the
shape of this old ugly Commandant, warns Monnier by letter;
also, on some thin pretext, restricts Mirabeau henceforth to the
four walls of Joux. Mirabeau flings back such restriction, in an
indignant Letter to this green-eyed Commandant; indignantly
steps over into Switzerland, which is but a few miles off;-returns,
however, in a day or two (it is dark January 1776), covertly to
Pontarlier. There is an explosion, what they call éclat. Sophie
Monnier, sharply dealt with, resists; avows her love for Gabriel
Honoré ; asserts her right to love him, her purpose to continue
doing it. She is sent home to Dijon; Gabriel Honoré covertly
follows her thither.
Explosions: what a continued series of explosions,—through
winter, spring, Summer There are tears, devotional exercises,
threatenings to commit suicide; there are stolen interviews, perils,
proud avowals and lowly concealments. He on his part ‘volum-
tarily constitutes himself prisoner;' and does other haughty, vehe-
ment things; some Commandants behaving honourably, and some
not : one Commandant (old Marquis Mirabeau of the Château of
Bignon) getting ready his thunderbolts in the distance “I have
‘ been lucky enough to obtain Mont Saint-Michel, in Normandy,’
says the old Marquis: ‘I think that prison good, because there is
‘ first the Castle itself, then a ring-work all round the mountain;
‘ and, after that, a pretty long passage among the sands, where
‘you need guides, to avoid being drowned in the quicksands.’
Yes, it rises there, that Mountain of Saint-Michel, and Mountain
of Misery; towering sheer up, like a bleak Pisgah with outlooks
MIRAIBEAU. 103
only into desolation, sand, salt-water and despair." Fly, thou
poor Gabriel Honoré! Thou poor Sophie, return to Pontarlier;
for Convent-walls too are cruel!
Gabriel flies; and indeed there fly with him Sister Cabris and
her preternuptial epauletted Brianson, who are already in flight
for their own behoof: into deep thickets and covered ways, wide
over the South-west of France. Marquis Mirabeau, thinking with
a fond sorrow of Mont Saint-Michel and its quicksands, chooses
the two best bloodhounds the Police of Paris has (Inspector Brug-
nière and another); and, unmuzzling them, cries: Hunt —Man
being a venatory creature, and the Chase perennially interesting
to him, we have thought it might be good to present certain broken
glimpses of this man-hunt through the South-west of France; of
which, by a singular felicity, some Narrative exists, in the shape
of official reports, very ill-spelt and otherwise curious, written
down sectionally by the chief slot-hound himself, for transmittal
to the chief huntsman eyeing it intently from the distance. It is
not every day that there is such game afield as a Gabriel Honoré,
such a huntsman tallyhoing in the distance as old Marquis Mira-
beau; or that you have a hound who can, in never so bad spelling,
tell you what his notions of the business are:
‘On arriving at Dijon, I went to see Madame la Présidente Ruffey, to
gather new informations from her. Madame informed me that there was
in the town a certain Chevalier de Macon, a half pay officer, who was the
Sieur Mirabeau's friend, his companion and confidant, and that if any one
could get acquainted with him.’—.—“The Sieur Brugnière went therefore
to lodge at this Macon's inn; finds means to get acquainted with him,
affecting the same tastes, following him to fencing-rooms, billiard-tables
and other such places.’—
“Accordingly, on reaching Geneva, we learn that the Sieur Mirabeau
did arrive there on the fifth of June. He left it for Thonon in Savoy; two
women in men's-clothes came asking for him, and they all went away
together, by Chambéry, and thence by Turin. At Thonon we could not
learn what road they had taken; so secret are they, and involve themselves
in all manner of detours. After three days of incredible fatigue, we dis-
cover the man that had driven them : it is back to Geneva that they are
gone; we hasten hither again, and have good hope of finding them now.’—
Hope fallacious as before
* However, what helps Brugnière and me a little is this, that the Sieur
Mirabeau and his train, though already armed like smugglers, bought yet
other pistols, and likewise sabres, even a hunting knife with a secret pistol
for handle; we learned this at Geneva. They take remote diabolic roads
to avoid entering France.’ ” ” * * * Following on foot the
trace of them, it brings us to Lyons, where they seem to have taken the
most obscure methods, accompanied with impenetrable cunning, to enter
the town: we lost all track of them ; our researches were most painful.
At length we have come upon a man named Saint-Jean, confidential servant
1 See Mémoires de Madame de Genlis, iii. 201.
104 MISCELLANIES.
of Madame de Cabris.”—“On quitting this, along with Brianson, who I
think is a bad subject, M. de Mirabeau signified to Saint-Jean that they
were going to Lorgue in Provence, which is Brianson's country; that
Brianson was then to accompany him as far as Nice, where he would em-
bark for Geneva and pass a month there."—
* Following this trace of M. de Mirabeau, who had embarked on the
Rhone at Lyons, we came to Avignon: here we find he took post-horses,
having sent for them half a league from the town; he had another pair of
pistols bought for him here; and then, being well hidden in the cabriolet,
drove through Avignon, put letters in the post-office; it was about the
dusk of the evening. But now at that time was the chief tumult of the
Beaucaire Fair," and this cabriolet was so lost in the crowd that it was
impossible for us to track it farther. However, the domestic Saint-
Jean'—. * * —‘a M. Marsaut, Advocate, an honourable man, who
gave us all possible directions.” “He introduced us to this Brianson, with
whom we contrived to sup. We gave ourselves out for travellers, Lyons
merchants, who were going, the one of us to Geneva and Italy, the other
to Geneva only : it was the way to make this Brianson speak.' * * *
“When you leave Provence to pass into the Country of Nice, you have
to wade across the War; a torrent which is almost always dangerous, and
is often impracticable: it sometimes spreads out to a quarter of a league
in breadth, and has an astonishing rapidity at all times: its reputation is
greater still; and travellers who have to cross speak of it with terror. On
each bank there are strong men who make a trade of passing travellers
across; going before them and around them, with strong poles, to sound
the bottom, which will change several times in a day: they take great pains
to increase your fear, even when there is not danger. These people, by
whose means we passed, told us that they had offered to pass a gentleman
having the same description as he we seek; that this gentleman would
have nobody, but crossed with some women of the country, who were
wading without guide; that he seemed to dislike being looked at too close:
we made the utmost researches there. We found that, at some distance,
this person had entered a hedge-tavern for some refreshment; that he had
a gold box with a lady's portrait in it, and in a word the same description
everyway; that he asked if they did not know of any ship at Nice for
Italy, and that they told him of one for England. He had crossed the
War, as I had the honour of informing you, Monsieur, above: I have the
honour of observing that there is no Police at Nice.' * >k
sk * “Found that there had embarked, at Willefranche, which is
another little haven near to Nice, a private person unknown, answering
still to the same description (except that he wore a red coat, whereas
M. de Mirabeau has been followed hitherto under a green coat, a red-brown
one (mordoré), and a gray ribbed one); and embarked for England. In
spite of this we sent persons into the Heights to get information, who
know the Secret passages; the Sieur Brugnière mounted a mule accus-
tomed to those horrific and terrifying Mountains, took a guide, and made
all possible researches too : in a word, Monsieur, we have done all that
the human mind (l'esprit humain) can imagine, and this when the heats
are so excessive; and we are worn-out with fatigue, and our limbs swoln.’
No : all that the human mind can imagine is ineffectual. On
the twenty-third night of August (1776), Sophie de Monnier, in
man's clothes, is scaling the Monnier garden-wall at Pontarlier;
| Napoleon's Sowper de Beaucaire /
MIRABEAU. 105
is crossing the Swiss marches, wrapped in a cloak of darkness,
borne on the wings of love and despair. Gabriel Honoré, wrapped
in the like cloak, borne on the like vehicle, is gone with her to
Holland,-thenceforth a broken man.
‘Crime forever lamentable, ejaculates the Fils Adoptif, ‘of
which the world has so spoken, and must forever speak' ' There
are, indeed, many things easy to be spoken of it; and also some
things not easy to be spoken. Why, for example, thou virtuous
Fils Adoptif, was that of the Canteen-keeper's wife at If such a
peccadillo, and this of the legal President's wife such a crime,
lamentable to that late date of ‘forever?' The present reviewer
fancies them to be the same crime. Again, might not the first
grand criminal and sinner in this business be legal President
Monnier, the distracted, spleen-stricken, moon-stricken old man;–
liable to trial, with non-acquittal or difficult acquittal, at the great
Bar of Nature herself? And then the second sinner in it? and
the third and the fourth 2 “He that is without sin among you!'—
One thing, therefore, the present reviewer will speak, in the words
of old Samuel Johnson : My dear Fils Adoptif, my dear brethren
of Mankind, ‘endeavour to clear your mind of Cant l’ It is posi-
tively the prime necessity for all men, and all women and children,
in these days, who would have their souls live, were it even feebly,
and not die of the detestablest asphyxia, as in carbonic vapour,
the more horrible, for breathing of, the more clean it looks.
That the Parlement of Besançon indicted Mirabeau for rapt et
vol, abduction and robbery; that they condemned him “in contu-
macious absence, and went the length of beheading a Paper Effigy
of him, was perhaps extremely suitable;—but not to be dwelt on
here. Neither do we pry curiously into the garret-life in Holland
and Amsterdam; being straitened for room. The wild man and
his beautiful sad-heroic woman lived out their romance of reality,
as well as was to be expected. Hot tempers go not always softly
together; neither did the course of true love, either in wedlock or
in elopement, ever run smooth. Yet it did run, in this instance,
copious, if not smooth; with quarrel and reconcilement, tears and
heart-effusion ; sharp tropical squalls, and also the gorgeous efful
gence and exuberance of general tropical weather. It was like a
little Paphos islet in the middle of blackness; the very danger and
despair that environed it made the islet blissful;-even as in
virtue of death, life to the fretfullest becomes tolerable, becomes
sweet, death being so nigh. At any hour, might not king's exempt
or other dread alguazil knock at our garret establishment, here ‘in
the Kalbestrand, at Lequesne the tailor's,” and dissolve it? Gabriel
toils for Dutch booksellers; bearing their heavy load; translating
106 MISCELLANIES.
Watson's Philip Second; doing endless Gibeonite work: earning,
however, his gold louis a-day. Sophie sews and scours beside him,
with her soft fingers, not grudging it: in hard toils, in trembling
joys begirt with terrors, with one terror, that of being parted,—
their days roll swiftly on. For eight tropical months!—Ah, at the
end of some eight months (14th May 1777) enter the alguazil
He is in the shape of Brugnière, our old slot-hound of the South-
west; the swelling of his legs is fallen now; this time the human
mind has been able to manage it. He carries King's orders, High
Mightiness's sanctions; sealed parchments. Gabriel Honoré shall
be carried this way, Sophie that ; Sophie, like to be a mother, shall
behold him no more. Desperation, even in the female character,
can go no farther: she will kill herself that hour, as even the slot-
hound believes, -had not the very slot-hound, in mercy, under-
taken that they should have some means of correspondence ; that
hope should not utterly be cut away. With embracings and inter-
jections, sobbings that cannot be uttered, they tear themselves
asunder, stony Paris now nigh: Mirabeau towards his prison of
Vincennes; Sophie to some milder Convent-parlour relegation,
there to await what Fate, very minatory at this time, will see good
to bring.
Conceive the giant Mirabeau locked fast, then, in Doubting-
castle of Vincennes; his hot soul surging-up, wildly breaking itself
against cold obstruction; the voice of his despair reverberated on
him by dead stone-walls. Fallen in the eyes of the world, the am-
bitious haughty man; his fair life-hopes from without all spoiled
and become foul ashes: and from within, -what he has done,
what he has parted with and undone ! I)eaf as Destiny is a Rha-
damanthine father; inaccessible even to the attempt at pleading.
Heavy doors have slammed-to ; their bolts growling Woe to thee!
Great Paris sends eastward its daily multitudinous hum; in the
evening sun thou seest its weathercocks glitter, its old grim towers
and fuliginous life-breath all gilded : and thou?—Neither evening
nor morning, nor change of day nor season, brings deliverance.
Forgotten of Earth; not too hopefully remembered of Heaven
No passionate Pater-Peccavi can move an old Marquis; deaf he as
T)estiny. Thou must sit there.— For forty-two months, by the
great Zodiacal Horologe The heir of the Riquettis, sinful, and
yet more sinned against, has worn-out his wardrobe ; complains
that his clothes get looped and windowed, insufficient against the
weather. His eye-sight is failing; the family disorder, nephritis,
afflicts him; the doctors declare horse-exercise essential to pre-
serve life. Within the walls, then answers the old Marquis.
Count de Mirabeau “rides in the garden of forty paces;" with
MIRABEAU. 107
quick turns, hamperedly, overlooked by donjons and high stone-
barriers. -
And yet fancy not Mirabeau spent his time in mere wailing and
raging. Far from that 1–
To whine, put finger i' the eye, and sob,
Because he had ne'er another tub,
was in no case Mirabeau's method, more than Diogenes's. Other
such wild-glowing mass of life, which you might beat with Cyclops'
hammers (and, alas, not beat the dross out of), was not in Europe
at that time. Call him not the strongest man then living; for light,
as we said, and not fire, is the strong thing: yet call him strong
too, very strong; and for toughness, tenacity, vivaciousness and a
fond gaillard, call him toughest of all. Raging passions, ill-governed;
reckless tumult from within, merciless oppression from without :
ten men might have died of what this Gabriel Honoré did not yet
die of Police-captain Lenoir allowed him, in mercy and according
to engagement, to correspond with Sophie; the condition was, that
the letters should be seen by Lenoir, and be returned into his keep-
ing. Mirabeau corresponded; in fire and tears, copiously, not Wer-
ter-like, but Mirabeau-like. Then he had penitential petitions,
Pater-Peccavis to write, to get presented and enforced ; for which
end all manner of friends must be urged: correspondence enough.
Besides, he could read, though very limitedly : he could even com-
pose or compile ; extracting, not in the manner of the bee, from
the very Bible and Dom Calmet, a ‘Piblion Eroticon,’ which can be
recommended to no woman or man. The pious Fils Adoptif drops
a veil over his face at this scandal; and says lamentably that there
is nothing to be said. As for the Correspondence with Sophie, it
lay in Lenoir's desk, forgotten ; but was found there by Manuel,
Procureur of the Commune in 1792, when so many desks flew open,
and by him given to the world. A book which fair sensibility
(rather in a private way) loves to weep over: not this reviewer, to
any considerable extent; not at all here, in his present strait for
room. Good love-letters of their kind notwithstanding. But if
anything can swell farther the tears of fair sensibility over Mira-
beau's Correspondence of Vincennes, it must be this: the issue it
ended in. After a space of years, these two lovers, wrenched asun-
der in Holland, and allowed to correspond that they might not
poison themselves, met again : it was under cloud of night; in
Sophie's apartment, in the country; Mirabeau, “disguised as a
porter,’ had come thither from a considerable distance. And they
flew into each other's arms; to weep their child dead, their long
unspeakable woes? Not at all. They stood, arms stretched ora-
torically, calling one another to account for causes of jealousy;
108 M (SCELLAN IES.
grew always louder, arms set a-kimbo; and parted quite loud, never
to meet more on earth. In September 1789, Mirabeau had risen
to be a world's wonder: and Sophie, far from him, had sunk out of
the world's sight, respected only in the little town of Gien. On
the 9th night of September, Mirabeau might be thundering in the
Versailles Salle des Menus, to be reported of all Journals on the
morrow; and Sophie, twice disappointed of new marriage, the sad-
heroic temper darkened now into perfect black, was reclining, self-
tied to her sofa, with a pan of charcoal burning near; to die as the
unhappy die. Said we not, “the course of true love never did run
Smooth ?'
However, after two-and-forty months, and negotiations, and
more intercessions than in Catholic countries will free a soul out
of Purgatory, Mirabeau is once more delivered from the strong
place: not into his own home (home, wife and the whole Past are
far parted from him); not into his father's home; but forth ; —
hurled forth, to seek his fortune Ishmael-like in the wide hunting-
field of the world. Consider him, O reader; thou wilt find him
very notable. A disgraced man, not a broken one ; ruined out-
wardly, not ruined inwardly; not yet, for there is no ruining of
him on that side. Such a buoyancy of radical fire and fond gail-
lard he has ; with his dignity and vanity, levity, solidity, with his
virtues and his vices, what a front he shows ' You would say, he
bates not a jot, in these sad circumstances, of what he claimed
from Fortune, but rather enlarges it: his proud soul, so galled,
deformed by manacles and bondage, flings away its prison-gear,
bounds-forth to the fight again, as if victory, after all, were certain.
Post-horses to Pontarlier and the Besançon Parlement; that that
“sentence by contumacy’ be annulled, and the Paper Effigy have
its Head stuck on again : The wild giant, said to be ‘absent by
contumacy,' sits voluntarily in the Pontarlier Jail; thunders in
pleadings which make Parlementeers quake, and all France listen;
and the Head reunites itself to the Paper Effigy with apologies.
Monnier and the De Ruffeys know who is the most impudent man
alive : the world, with astonishment, who is one of the ablest.
Even the old Marquis snuffles approval, though with qualification.
Tough old man, he has lost his own world-famous Lawsuit and
other lawsuits, with ruinous expenses; has seen his fortune and
projects fail, and even lettres de cachet turn-out not always satisfac-
tory or sanatory: wherefore he summons his children about him;
and, really in a very serene way, declares himself invalided, fit
only for the chimney-nook now; to sit patching his old mind
together again (d rebouter sa tête, á še recoudre pièce d pièce): advice
and countenance they, the deserving part of them, shall always
MIRA.BEAU. 109
enjoy; but lettres de cachet, or other the like benefit and guidance,
not any more. Right so, thou best of old Marquises | There he
rests then, like the still evening of a thundery day; thunders no
more; but rays-forth many a curiously-tinted light-beam and re-
mark on life; serene to the last. Among Mirabeau's Small cata-
logue of virtues, very small of formulary and conventional virtues,
let it not be forgotten that he loved this old father warmly to the
end; and forgave his cruelties, or forgot them in kind interpreta-
tion of them. -
For the Pontarlier Paper Effigy, therefore, it is well: and yet a
man lives not comfortably without money. Ah, were one's mar-
riage not disrupted; for the old father-in-law will soon die; those
rich expectations were then fruitions ! The ablest, not the most
shamefaced man in France, is off, next spring (1783), to Aix; stirring
Parlement and Heaven and Earth there, to have his wife back.
How he worked ; with what nobleness and courage (according to
the Fils Adoptif); giant's work! The sound of him is spread over
France and over the world; English travellers, high foreign lord-
ships, turning aside to Aix; and ‘multitudes gathered even on the
roofs' to hear him, the Court-house being crammed to bursting !
Demosthenic fire and pathos; penitent husband calling for forgive-
ness and restitution —‘ce n'est qu'un claquedents et un fol, rays-forth
the old Marquis from the chimney-nook; ‘a clatter-teeth and mad-
man " The world and Parlement thought not that; knew not
what to think, if not that this was the questionablest able man
they had ever heard; and, alas, still farther, that his cause was
wntenable. No wife, then; and no money ! From this second attack
on Fortune, Mirabeau returns foiled, and worse than before; re-
sourceless, for now the old Marquis too again eyes him askance.
He must hunt Ishmael-like, as we said. Whatsoever of wit or
strength he has within himself will stand true to him; on that he
can count; unfortunately on almost nothing but that.
Mirabeau's life for the next five years, which creeps troublous,
obscure, through several of these Eight Volumes, will probably, in
the One right Volume which they hold imprisoned, be delineated
briefly. It is the long-drawn practical improvement of the Sermon
already preached in Rhé, in If, in Joux, in Holland, in Vincennes
and elsewhere. A giant man in the flower of his years, in the
winter of his prospects, has to see how he will reconcile these two
contradictions. With giant energies and talents, with giant virtues
even, he, burning to unfold himself, has got put into his hands,
for implements and means to do it with, disgrace, contumely, ob-
struction; character elevated only as Haman was; purse full only
110 MISCELLANIES.
of debt-summonses; household, home and possessions, as it were,
sown with salt; Ruin's ploughshare furrowing too deeply himself
and all that was his. Under these, and not under other conditions,
shall this man now live and struggle. Well might he ‘weep' long
afterwards (though not given to the melting mood), thinking over,
with Dumont, how his life had been blasted, by himself, by others;
and was now so defaced and thunder-riven, no glory could make it
whole again. Truly, as we often say, a weaker, and yet very strong
man, might have died,—by hypochondria, by brandy, or by arsenic :
but Mirabeau did not die. The world is not his friend, nor the
world's law and formula? It will be his enemy, then ; his con-
queror and master not altogether. There are strong men who can,
in case of necessity, make away with formulas (humer les formules),
and yet find a habitation behind them : these are the very strong;
and Mirabeau was of these. The world's esteem having gone quite
against him, and most circles of society, with their codes and
regulations, pronouncing little but anathema on him, he is never-
theless not lost; he does not sink to desperation ; not to dis-
honesty, or pusillanimity, or splenetic aridity. Nowise ! In spite
of the world, he is a living strong man there : the world cannot
take from him his just consciousness of himself, his warm open-
hearted feeling towards others; there are still limits, on all sides,
to which the world and the devil cannot drive him. The giant, we
say ! How he stands, like a mountain ; thunder-riven, but broad-
based, rooted in the Earth's (in Nature's) own rocks; and will not
tumble prostrate | So true is it what a moralist has said: “One
‘could not wish any man to fall into a fault; yet is it often pre-
“cisely after a fault, or a crime even, that the morality which is in
“a man first unfolds itself, and what of strength he as a man
* possesses, now when all else is gone from him.’
Mirabeau, through these dim years, is seen wandering from
place to place; in France, Germany, Holland, England; finding
no rest for the sole of his foot. It is a life of shifts and expedients,
au jour le jour. Extravagant in his expenses, thriftless, swimming
in a welter of debts and difficulties; for which he has to provide
by fierce industry, by skill in financiership. The man's revenue is
his wits; he has a pen and a head; and, happily for him, ‘is the
demon of the impossible.’ At no time is he without some blazing
project or other, which shall warm and illuminate far and wide;
which too often blazes-out ineffectual; which in that case he re-
places and renews, for his hope is inexhaustible. He writes
Pamphlets unweariedly as a steam-engine : on The Opening of the
Scheldt, and Kaiser Joseph ; on The Order of Cincinnatus, and
Washington; on Count Cagliostro, and the Diamond Necklace.
MIITABEAU. 111
Innumerable are the helpers and journeymen, respectable Mauvil-
lons, respectable Dumonts, whom he can set working for him on
such matters; it is a gift he has. He writes Books, in as many as
eight volumes, which are properly only a larger kind of Pamphlets.
He has polemics with Caron Beaumarchais on the water-company
of Paris; lean Caron shooting sharp arrows into him, which he
responds to demoniacally, “flinging hills with all their woods.’ He
is intimate with many men; his “terrible gift of familiarity,’ his
joyous courtiership and faculty of pleasing, do not forsake him :
but it is a questionable intimacy, granted to the man's talents, in
spite of his character: a relation which the proud Riquetti, not the
humbler that he is poor and ruined, correctly feels. With still
more women is he intimate; girt with a whole system of intrigues
in that sort, wherever he abide; seldom travelling without a-wife
(let us call her) engaged by the year, or during mutual satisfaction.
On this large department of Mirabeau's history, what can you say,
except that his incontinence was great, enormous, entirely inde-
fensible 2 If any one please (which we do not) to be present, with
the Fils Adoptif, at ‘the autopsie' and post-mortem examination, he
will see curious documents on this head; and to what depths of
penalty Nature, in her just self-vindication, can sometimes doom
men. The Fils Adoptif is very sorry. To the kind called unfortu-
nate-females, it would seem nevertheless, this unfortunate-male
had an aversion amounting to complete nolo-tangere.
The old Marquis sits apart in the chimney-nook, observant:
what this roaming, unresting, rebellious Titan of a Count may
ever prove of use for ? If it be not, O Marquis, for the General
Overturn, Culbute Générale? He is swallowing Formulas; getting
endless acquaintance with the Realities of things and men: in
audacity, in recklessness, he will not, it is like, be wanting. The
old Marquis rays-out curious observations on life;—yields no effec-
tual assistance of money.
Ministries change and shift; but never, in the new deal, does
there turn-up a good card for Mirabeau. Necker he does not love,
nor is love lost between them. Plausible Calomne hears him Sten-
tor-like denouncing stock-jobbing (Dénonciation de l'Agiotage); com-
munes with him, corresponds with him ; is glad to get him sent,
in some semi-ostensible or spy-diplomatist character, to Berlin;
in any way to have him stopped and quieted. The Great Frederic
was still on the scene, though now very near the side-scenes: the
wiry thin Drill-sergeant of the World, and the broad burly Muti-
neer of the World, glanced into one another with amazement; the
one making entrance, the other making exit. To this Berlin
business we owe pamphlets; we owe Correspondences (‘surrep.
112 MISCELLANIES.
titiously published’—with consent): we owe (brave Major Mau-
villon serving as hodman) the Monarchie Prussienne, a Pamphlet
in some eight octavo volumes, portions of which are still well
worth reading.
Generally, on first making personal acquaintance with Mirabeau
as a writer or speaker, one is not a little surprised. Instead of
Irish oratory, with tropes and declamatory fervid feeling, such as
the rumour one has heard gives prospect of, you are astonished to
meet a certain hard angular distinctness, a totally unornamented
force and massiveness: clear perspicuity, strong perspicacity, con-
viction that wishes to convince,—this beyond all things, and in-
stead of all things. You would say the primary character of those
utterances, may of the man himself, is sincerity and insight;
strength, and the honest use of strength. Which indeed it is, O
reader! Mirabeau's spiritual gift will be found, on examination,
to be verily an honest and a great one; far the strongest, best
practical intellect of that time; entitled to rank among the strong
of all times. These books of his ought to be riddled, like this
book of the Fils Adoptif. There is precious matter in them; too
good to lie hidden among shot-rubbish. Hear this man on any
subject, you will find him worth considering. He has words in
him, rough deliverances; such as men do not forget. As thus: ‘I
“know but three ways of living in this world: by wages for work;
‘ by begging; thirdly, by stealing (so named, or not so named).’
Again: ‘Malebranche saw all things in God; and M. Necker sees
‘ all things in Necker!' There are nicknames of Mirabeau's worth
whole treatises. ‘Grandison-Cromwell Lafayette:' write a volume
on the man, as many volumes have been written, and try to say
more It is the best likeness yet drawn of him, by a flourish
and two dots. Of such inexpressible advantage is it that a man
have “an eye, instead of a pair of spectacles merely;' that, seeing
through the formulas of things, and even “making away' with
many a formula, he see into the thing itself, and so know it and be
master of it !
As the years roll on, and that portentous decade of the Eighties,
or ‘Era of Hope, draws towards completion, and it becomes ever
more evident to Mirabeau that great things are in the wind, we find
his wanderings, as it were, quicken. Suddenly emerging out of
Night and Cimmeria, he dashes-down on the Paris world, time
after time; flashes into it with that fire-glance of his; discerns that
the time is not yet come ; and then merges back again. Occasion-
ally his pamphlets provoke a fulmination and order of arrest, where-
fore he must merge the faster. Nay, your Calonne is good enough
to signify it beforehand: On such and such a day I shall order you
MIRA.BEAU. 113
to be arrested; pray make speed therefore. When the Notables
meet, in the spring of 1787, Mirabeau spreads his pinions, alights
on Paris and Versailles; it seems to him he ought to be secretary
of those Notables. No! friend Dupont de Nemours gets it: the time
is not yet come. It is still but the time of “Crispin-Catiline' d'Es-
préménil, and other such animal-magnetic persons. Nevertheless,
the reverend Talleyrand, judicious Dukes, liberal noble friends not
a few, are sure that the time will come. Abide thy time.
Hark! On the 27th of December 1788, here finally is the long-
expected announcing itself: royal Proclamation definitively con-
voking the States-General for May next | Need we ask whether
Mirabeau bestirs himself now ; whether or not he is off to Pro-
vence, to the Assembly of Noblesse there, with all his faculties
screwed to the sticking-place 2 One strong dead-lift pull, thou
Titan, and perhaps thou carriest it! How Mirabeau wrestled and
strove under these auspices; speaking and contending all day,
writing pamphlets, paragraphs, all night; also suffering much,
gathering his wild soul together, motionless under reproaches,
under drawn swords even, lest his enemies throw him off his
guard; how he agitates and represses, unerringly dextrous, sleep-
lessly unwearied, and is a very ‘demon of the impossible,' let all
readers fancy. With ‘a body of Noblesse more ignorant, greedier,
more insolent than any I have ever seen,” the Swallower of For-
mulas was like to have rough work. We must give his celebrated
flinging-up of the handful of dust, when they drove him out by
overwhelming majority:
‘What have I done that was so criminal? I have wished that my Order
were wise enough to give today what will infallibly be wrested from it to-
morrow; that it should receive the merit and glory of sanctioning the as-
semblage of the Three Orders, which all Provence loudly demands. This
is the crime of your “enemy of peace!” Or rather, I have ventured to be-
lieve that the people might be in the right. Ah, doubtless, a patrician
soiled with such a thought deserves vengeance . But I am still guiltier
than you think; for it is my belief that the people which complains is
always in the right; that its indefatigable patience invariably waits the
uttermost excesses of oppression, before it can determine on resisting; that
it never resists long enough to obtain complete redress; and does not suffi-
ciently know that to strike its enemies into terror and submission, it has
only to stand still; that the most innocent as the most invincible of all
powers is the power of refusing to do. I believe after this manner: punish
the enemy of peace |
“But you, ministers of a God of peace, who are ordained to bless and
not to curse, and yet have launched your anathema on me, without even
the attempt at enlightening me, at reasoning with me! And you, “friends
of peace,” who denounce to the people, with all vehemence of hatred, the
one defender it has yet found, out of its own ranks;– who, to bring about
concord, are filling capital and province with placards calculated to arm the
rural districts against the towns, if your deeds did not refute your writings;
TVOL. IV. l
114 MISCELLANIES.
-who, to prepare ways of conciliation, protest against the royal Regula-
tion for convoking the States-General, because it grants the people as many
deputies as both the other orders, and against all that the coming National
Assembly shall do, unless its laws secure the triumph of your pretensions,
the eternity of your privileges Disinterested “friends of peace " I have
appealed to your honour, and summon you to state what expressions of mine
have offended against either the respect we owe to the royal authority or to
the nation's right? Nobles of Provence, Europe is attentive; weigh well
your answer. Men of God, beware; God hears you!
‘And if you do not answer, but keep silence, shutting yourselves up in the
vague declamations you have hurled at me, then allow me to add one word.
“In all countries, in all times, aristocrats have implacably persecuted
the people's friends; and if, by some singular combination of fortune, there
chanced to arise such a one in their own circle, it was he above all whom
they struck at, eager to inspire wider terror by the elevation of their victim.
Thus perished the last of the Gracchi by the hands of the patricians; but,
being struck with the mortal stab, he flung dust towards Heaven, and called
on the Avenging Deities; and from this dust sprang Marius, – Marius not
so illustrious for exterminating the Cimbri as for overturning in Rome the
tyranny of the Noblesse !’
There goes some foolish story of Mirabeau having now opened
a cloth-shop in Marseilles, to ingratiate himself with the Third
Estate; whereat we have often laughed. The image of Mirabeau
measuring out drapery to mankind, and deftly snipping at tailors'
measures, has something pleasant for the mind. So that, though
there is not a shadow of truth in this story, the very lie may justly
sustain itself for a while, in the character of lie. Far otherwise
was the reality there: ‘voluntary guard of a hundred men;' Pro-
vence crowding by the ten-thousand round his chariot-wheels;
explosions of rejoicing musketry, heaven-rending acclamation ;
“ people paying two louis for a place at the window !' Hunger
itself (very considerable in those days) he can pacify by speech.
Violent meal-mobs at Marseilles and at Aix, unmanageable by fire-
arms and governors, he smooths-down by the word of his mouth ;
the governor soliciting him, though unloved. It is as a Roman
Triumph, and more. He is chosen deputy for two places; has to
decline Marseilles, and honour Aix. Let his enemies look and
wonder, and sigh forgotten by him. For this Mirabeau too the
career at last opens. g
At last ! Does not the benevolent reader, though never so
unambitious, sympathise a little with this poor brother mortal in
such a case? Victory is always joyful; but to think of such a man,
in the hour when, after twelve Hercules' Labours, he does finally
triumph So long he fought with the many-headed coil of Lernean
serpents; and, panting, wrestled and wrang with it for life or
death, – forty long stern years; and now he has it under his heel !
The mountain-tops are scaled, are scaled; where the man climbed,
MIRA.BEAU. 1.15
on sharp flinty precipices, slippery, abysmal; in darkness, seen by
no kind eye, - amid the brood of dragons; and the heart, many
times, was like to fail within him, in his loneliness, in his extreme
need : yet he climbed, and climbed, gluing his footsteps in his
blood; and now, behold, Hyperion-like he has scaled it, and on the
summit shakes his glittering shafts of war ! What a scene and
new kingdom for him; all bathed in auroral radiance of Hope ; far-
stretching, solemn, joyful : what wild Memnon's music, from the
depths of Nature, comes toning through the soul raised suddenly
out of strangling death into victory and life The very bystander, .
we think, might weep, with this Mirabeau, tears of joy.
Which, alas, will become tears of sorrow ! For know, O Son of
Adam (and Son of Lucifer, with that accursed ambition of thine),
that they are all a delusion and piece of demonic necromancy, these
same auroral splendours, enchantments and Memnon's tones
The thing thou as mortal wantest is equilibrium, what is called
rest or peace; which, God knows, thou wilt never get so. Happy
they that find it without such searching. But in some twenty-
three months more, of blazing solar splendour and conflagration,
this Mirabeau will be ashes; and lie opaque, in the Pantheon of
great men (or say, French Pantheon of considerable, or even of
considered and small-noisy men), -at rest nowhere, save on the
lap of his mother Earth. There are to whom the gods, in their
bounty, give glory; but far oftener is it given in wrath, as a curse
and a poison ; disturbing the whole inner health and industry of
the man; leading onward through dizzy staggerings and tarantula
jiggings, Ltowards no Saint's shrine. Truly, if Death did not in-
tervene; or still more happily, if Life and the Public were not a
blockhead, and sudden unreasonable oblivion were not to follow
that sudden unreasonable glory, and beneficently, though most
painfully, damp it down, one sees not where many a poor glorious
man, still more many a poor glorious woman could terminate, –
far short of Bedlam. -
On the 4th day of May 1789, Madame de Staël, looking from a
window in the main street of Versailles, amid an assembled world,
as the Deputies walked in procession from the church of Nôtre-
Dame to that of Saint Louis, to hear High Mass, and be consti-
tuted States-General, saw this: “Among these Nobles who had been
‘ deputed to the Third Estate, above all others the Comte de Mira-
‘beau. The opinion men had of his genius was singularly aug.
“mented by the fear entertained of his immorality; and yet it was
this very immorality which straitened the influence his astonish-
‘ing faculties were to secure him. You could not but look long at
116 MISCELLANIES.
‘this man, when once you had noticed him: his immense black
‘ head of hair distinguished him among them all; you would have
“ said his force depended on it, like that of Samson: his face bor-
‘ rowed new expression from its very ugliness; his whole person
gave you the idea of an irregular power, but a power such as you
“would figure in a Tribune of the People.' Mirabeau's history
through the first twenty-three months of the Revolution falls not
to be written here: yet it is well worth writing somewhere. The
Constituent Assembly, when his name was first read out, received
it with murmurs; not knowing what they murmured at . This
honourable member they were murmuring over was the member
of all members; the august Constituent, without him were no
Constituent at all. Very notable, truly, is his procedure in this
section of world-history; by far the notablest single element there:
none like to him, or second to him. Once he is seen visibly to
have saved, as with his own force, the existence of the Constituent
Assembly; to have turned the whole tide of things: in one of
those moments which are cardinal; decisive for centuries. The
royal Declaration of the Twenty-third of June is promulgated: there
is military force enough ; there is then the King's express order
to disperse, to meet as separate Third Estate on the morrow. Bas-
tilles and scaffolds may be the penalty of disobeying. Mirabeau
disobeys; lifts his voice to encourage others, all pallid, panic-
stricken, to disobey. Supreme Usher De Brézé enters, with the
Ring's renewed order to depart. “Messieurs,” said De Brézé,
“you heard the King's order?” The Swallower of Formulas bel-
lows-out these words, that have become memorable : “Yes, Mon-
sieur, we heard what the King was advised to say; and you, who
cannot be interpreter of his meaning to the States-General; you,
who have neither vote, nor seat, nor right of speech here, you are
not the man to remind us of it. Go, Monsieur, tell those who
sent you, that we are here by will of the Nation ; and that nothing
but the force of bayonets can drive us hence " And poor De
Brézé vanishes, back foremost, the Fils Adoptif says.
But this, cardinal moment though it be, is perhaps intrinsi-
cally among his smaller feats. In general, we would say once
more with emphasis, He has ‘humé toutes les formules.’ He goes
through the Revolution like a substance and a force, not like a
formula of one. While innumerable barren Sieyeses and Consti-
tution-pedants are building, with such hammering and trowelling,
their august Paper Constitution (which endured eleven months),
this man looks not at cobwebs and Social Contracts, but at things
and men; discerning what is to be done,—proceeding straight to
do it. He shivers-out Usher De Brézé, back foremost, when that
MIRABEAU, 117
is the problem. “Marie Antoinette is charmed with him, when
it comes to that. He is the man of the Revolution, while he lives;
king of it; and only with life, as we compute, would have quitted
his kingship of it. Alone of all these Twelve-hundred, there is
in him the faculty of a king. For, indeed, have we not seen how
assiduously Destiny had shaped him all along, as with an express
eye to the work now in hand 2 O crabbed old Friend of Men,
whilst thou wert bolting this man into Isles of Rhé, Castles of If,
and training him so sharply to be thyself, not himself—how little
knewest thou what thou wert doing ! Let us add, that the brave
old Marquis lived to see his son's victory over Fate and men, and
rejoiced in it; and rebuked Barrel Mirabeau for controverting
such a Brother Gabriel. In the invalid Chimney-nook at Argen-
teuil, near Paris, he sat raying-out curious observations to the
last; and died three days before the Bastille fell, precisely when
the Culbute Générale was bursting out.
But finally, the twenty-three allotted months are over. Madame
de Staël, on the 4th of May 1789, saw the Roman Tribune of the
People, and Samson with his long black hair: and on the 4th of
April 1791, there is a Funeral Procession extending four miles:
king's ministers, senators, national guards, and all Paris, torch-
light, wail of trombones and music, and the tears of men; mourn-
ing of a whole people, such mourning as no modern people ever
saw for one man. This Mirabeau’s work then is done. He sleeps
with the primeval giants. He has gone over to the majority: Abiit
ad plures. *
In the way of eulogy and dyslogy, and summing-up of cha-
racter, there may doubtless be a great many things set forth con-
cerning this Mirabeau; as already there has been much discussion
and arguing about him, better and worse: which is proper surely;
as about all manner of new things, were they much less question-
able than this new giant is. The present reviewer, meanwhile,
finds it suitabler to restrict himself and his exhausted readers to
the three following moral reflections.
Moral reflection first : That, in these centuries men are not
born demi-gods and perfect characters, but imperfect ones, and
mere blamable men; men, namely, environed with such short-
coming and confusion of their own, and then with such adsci-
titious scandal and misjudgment (got in the work they did), that
they resemble less demi-gods than a sort of god-devils, very im-
perfect characters indeed. The demi-god arrangement were the
one which, at first sight, this reviewer might be inclined to prefer.
Moral reflection second, however: That probably men were never
118 MISCELLANIES.
born demi-gods in any century, but precisely god-devils as we see;
certain of whom do become a kind of demi-gods ! How many are
the men, not censured, misjudged, calumniated only, but tortured,
crucified, hung on gibbets, –not as god-devils even, but as devils
proper; who have nevertheless grown to seem respectable, or in-
finitely respectable ! For the thing which was not they, which was
not anything, has fallen away piecemeal; and become avowedly
babble and confused shadow, and no-thing: the thing which was
they, remains. Depend on it, Harmodius and Aristogiton, as clear
as they now look, had illegal plottings, conclaves at the Jacobins'
Church of Athens; and very intemperate things were spoken, and
also done. Thus too, Marcus Brutus and the elder Junius, are
they not palpable Heroes? Their praise is in all Debating Socie-
ties; but didst thou read what the Morning Papers said of those
transactions of theirs, the week after? Nay, Old Noll, whose bones
were dug-up and hung in chains here at home, as the just emblem
of himself and his deserts, the offal of creation at that time, has
not he too got to be a very respectable grim bronze-figure, though
it is yet only a century and half since ; of whom England seems
proud rather than otherwise?
Moral reflection third and last: That neither thou nor I, good
reader, had any hand in the making of this Mirabeau;–else who
knows but we had objected, in our wisdom ? But it was the Upper
Powers that made him, without once consulting us; they and not
we, so and not otherwise ! To endeavour to understand a little
what manner of Mirabeau he, so made, might be : this we, ac-
cording to opportunity, have done; and therefore do now, with a
lively satisfaction, take farewell of him, and leave him to prosper
as he can.
119
PARLIAMENTARY HISTORY OF THE FRIENCH
REVOLUTION.l
[1837.]
IT appears to be, if not stated in words, yet tacitly felt and under-
stood everywhere, that the event of these modern ages is the
French Revolution. A huge explosion, bursting through all for-
mulas and customs; confounding into wreck and chaos the ordered
arrangements of earthly life; blotting-out, one may say, the very
firmament and skyey loadstars, though only for a season. Once
in the fifteen-hundred years such a thing was ordained to come.
To those who stood present in the actual midst of that smoke and
thunder, the effect might well be too violent: blinding and deafen-
ing, into confused exasperation, almost into madness. These on-
lookers have played their part, were it with the printing-press or
with the battle-cannon, and are departed ; their work, such as it
was, remaining behind them;-where the French Revolution also
remains. And now, for us who have receded to the distance of
some half-century, the explosion becomes a thing visible, survey-
able: we see its flame and sulphur-smoke blend with the clear air
(far under the stars); and hear its uproar as part of the sick noise
of life, loud, indeed, yet embosomed too, as all noise is, in the
infinite of silence. It is an event which can be looked on ; which
may still be execrated, still be celebrated and psalmodied; but
which it were better now to begin understanding. Really there
are innumerable reasons why we ought to know this same French
Revolution as it was: of which reasons (apart altogether from that
of ‘Philosophy teaching by Experience,’ and so forth), is there not
1 LONDON AND WESTMINSTER REVIEW, No. 9 – Histoire Parlementaère de
la Révolution, Française ; ow. Journal des Assemblées Wationales depwis 1789
jusqu’en 1815: contenant la Narration des Evénemens, les Débats, &c. &c.
(Parliamentary History of the French Revolution; or Journal of the National
Assemblies from 1789 to 1815: containing a Narrative of the Occurrences;
Debates of the Assemblies; Discussions in the chief Popular Societies, especially
in that of the Jacobins; Records of the Commune of Paris; Sessions of the
Revolutionary Tribunal ; Reports of the leading Political Trials; Detail of the
Annual Budgets; Picture of the Moral Movement, extracted from the News-
papers, Pamphlets, &c. of each Period: preceded by an Introduction on the
History of France till the Convocation of the States-General.) By P. J. B.
Buchez and P. C. Roux. Tomes 1*—23* et seq. Paris, 1833–1836.
120 MISCELLANIES.
the best summary in this one reason, that we so wish to know it?
Considering the qualities of the matter, one may perhaps reason-
ably feel that since the time of the Crusades, or earlier, there is no
chapter of history so well worth studying.
Stated or not, we say, this persuasion is tacitly admitted, and
acted upon. In these days everywhere you find it one of the most
pressing duties for the writing guild, to produce history on history
of the French Revolution. In France it would almost seem as if
the young author felt that he must make this his proof shot, and
evidence of craftsmanship : accordingly they do fire-off Histoires,
Précis of Histoires, Annales, Fastes (to say nothing of Historical
Novels, Gil Blases, Dantons, Barnaves, Grangeneuves), in rapid suc-
cession, with or without effect. At all events it is curious to look
upon : curious to contrast the picturing of the same fact by the
men of this generation and position with the picturing of it by the
men of the last. From Barruel and Fantin Desodoards to Thiers
and Mignet there is a distance Each individual takes up the
Phenomenon according to his own point of vision, to the structure
of his optic organs;–gives, consciously, some poor crochety pic-
ture of several things; unconsciously some picture of himself at
least. And the Phenomenon, for its part, subsists there, all the
while, unaltered; waiting to be pictured as often as you like, its
entire meaning not to be compressed into any picture drawn by
ITX8.Il.
Thiers's History, in ten volumes foolscap-octavo, contains, if we
remember rightly, one reference; and that to a book, not to the
page or chapter of a book. It has, for these last seven or eight
years, a wide or even high reputation; which latter it is as far as
possible from meriting. A superficial air of order, of clearness,
calm candour, is spread over the work; but inwardly, it is waste,
inorganic ; no human head that honestly tries can conceive the
French Revolution so. A critic of our acquaintance undertook, by
way of bet, to find four errors per hour in Thiers: he won amply
on the first trial or two." And yet readers (we must add) taking
all this along with them, may peruse Thiers with comfort in certain
circumstances, may even with profit; for he is a brisk man of his
sort; and does tell you much, if you knew nothing.
Mignet's, again, is a much more honestly written book; yet also
an eminently unsatisfactory one. His two volumes contain far
* Thiers says, “ Notables consented with eagerness' (vol. i. p. 10), whereas
they properly did not consent at all ; “Parlement recalled on the 10th of Sep-
tember' (for the 15th); and then ‘Séance Royale took place on the 20th of the
same month' (19th of quite a different month, not the same, nor next to the
same); ‘D’Espremenil a young Counsellor' (of forty and odd); ‘Duport a
young man’ (turned of sixty), &c. &c.
HISTORY OF THE FRIENCH REVOLUTION. 121
more meditation and investigation in them than Thiers's ten :
their degree of preferability therefore is very high ; for it may be
said: Call a book diffuse, and you call it in all senses bad ; the
writer could not find the right word to say, and so said many
more or less wrong ones; did not hit the nail on the head, only
smote and bungled about it and about it. Mignet's book has a
compactness, a rigour, as of riveted rods of iron : this also is an
image of what symmetry it has ;-symmetry, if not of a living
earth-born Tree, yet of a firm well-manufactured Gridiron. With-
out life, without colour or verdure: that is to say, Mignet is heart-
ily and altogether a prosaist; you are too happy that he is not a
quack as well! It is very mortifying, also, to study his philoso-
phical reflections; how he jingles and rumbles a quantity of mere
abstractions and dead logical formulas, and calls it Thinking ;-
rumbles and rumbles, till he judges there may be enough ; then
begins again narrating. As thus:
‘The Constitution of 1791 was made on such principles as had resulted
from the ideas and the situation of France. It was the work of the middle
class, which chanced to be the strongest then : for, as is well known, what-
ever force has the lead will fashion the institutions according to its own
aims. Now this force, when it belongs to one, is despotism; when to seve-
ral, it is privilege; when to all, it is right: which latter state is the ultima-
tum of society, as it was its beginning. France had finally arrived thither,
after passing through feudalism, which is the aristocratic institution; and
then through absolutism, which is the monarchic one.
“The work of the Constituent Assembly perished, not so much by its
own defects as by the assaults of factions. Standing between the aristo-
cracy and the multitude, it was attacked by the former, and stormed and
won by the latter. The multitude would never have become supreme, had
not civil war and the coalition of foreign states rendered its intervention
and help indispensable. To defend the country the multitude required to
have the governing of it: thereupon (alors) it made its revolution, as the
middle class had made its. The multitude too had its Fourteenth of July,
which was the Tenth of August; its Constituent, which was the Conven-
tion; its Government, which was the Committee of Salut Public ; but, as
we shall see,’ &c." -
Or thus; for there is the like at the end of every chapter:
“But royalty had virtually fallen, on the Tenth of August; that day was
the insurrection of the multitude against the middle class and constitu-
tional throne, as the Fourteenth of July had been the insurrection of the
middle classes against the privileged classes and an absolute throne. The
Tenth of August witnessed the commencement of the dictatorial and arbi-
trary epoch of the Revolution. Circumstances becoming more and more
difficult, there arose a vast war, which required increased energy; and this
energy, unregulated, inasmuch as it was popular, rendered the sway of the
lower class an unquiet, oppressive and cruel sway.” “It was not any way
possible that the Bourgeoisie (middle class), which had been strong enough
1 Chap. iv. vol. i. p. 271.
122 MISCELLANIES.
to strike-down the old government and the privileged classes, but which
had taken to repose after this victory, could repulse the Emigration and
united Europe. There was needed for that a new shock, a new faith;
there was needed for that a new Class, numerous, ardent, not yet fatigued,
and which loved its Tenth of August, as the Burgherhood loved its Four-
teenth of,’ &c. &c.1
So uncommonly lively are these Abstractions (at bottom only
occurrences, similitudes, days of the month, and such like), which
rumble here in the historical headl Abstractions really of the
most lively, insurrectionary character; nay, which produce off-
spring, and indeed are oftenest parricidally devoured thereby:—
such is the jingling and rumbling which calls itself Thinking.
Nearly so, though with greater effect, might algebraical a’s go rum-
bling in some Pascal's or Babbage's mill. Just so, indeed, do the
Ralmuck people pray: quantities of written prayers are put in
some rotary pipkin or calabash (hung on a tree, or going like the
small barrel-churn of agricultural districts); this the devotee has
only to whirl and churn ; so long as he whirls, it is prayer; when
he ceases whirling, the prayer is done. Alas! this is a sore error,
very generally, among French thinkers of the present time. One
ought to add, that Mignet takes his place at the head of that bro-
therhood of his ; that his little book, though abounding too in
errors of detail, better deserves what place it has than any other of
recent date.
The older Desodoardses, Barruels, Lacretelles, and such like,
exist, but will hardly profit much. Toulongeon, a man of talent
and integrity, is very vague; often incorrect for an eye-witness;
his military details used to be reckoned valuable; but, we suppose,
Jomini has eclipsed them now. The Abbé Montgaillard has shrewd-
ness, decision, insight; abounds in anecdotes, strange facts and
reports of facts: his book being written in the form of Annals, is
convenient for consulting. For the rest, he is acrid, exaggerated,
occasionally altogether perverse ; and, with his hastes and his
hatreds, falls into the strangest hallucination;–as, for example,
when he coolly records that ‘Madame de Staël, Necker's daughter,
‘ was seen (on vit) distributing brandy to the Gardes Françaises in
‘their barracks;’ that ‘D’Orleans Egalité had a pair of man-skin
‘breeches,'—leather breeches, of human skin, such as they did
prepare in the tannery of Meudon, but too late for D’Orleans ! The
history by Deua Amis de Liberté, if the reader secure the original
edition, is perhaps worth all the others; and offers (at least till
1792, after which it becomes convulsive, semi-fatuous, here and
there, in the remaining dozen volumes) the best, correctest, most
| Chap. v. vol. i. p. 371.
HISTORY OF THE FRENCH FEVOLUTION. 123
picturesque narrative yet published. It is very correct, very pic-
turesque; wants only fore-shortening, shadow and compression; a
work of decided merit; the authors of it, what is singular, appear
not to be known.
Finally, our English histories do likewise abound: copious if
not in facts, yet in reflections on facts. They will prove to the
most incredulous that this French Revolution was, as Chamfort
said, no ‘rose-water Revolution;' that the universal insurrectionary
abrogation of law and custom was managed in a most unlawful,
uncustomary manner. He who wishes to know how a solid Custos
rotulorum, speculating over his port after dinner, interprets the
phenomena of contemporary Universal History, may look in these
books: he who does not wish that, need not look.
On the whole, after all these writings and printings, the weight
of which would sink an Indiaman, there are, perhaps, only some
three publications hitherto that can be considered as forwarding
essentially a right knowledge of this matter. The first of these is
the Analyse du Moniteur, complete expository Index, and Syllabus
of the Moniteur Newspaper from 1789 to 1799; a work carrying its
significance in its title;—provided it be faithfully executed; which
it is well known to be. Along with this we may mention the series
of Portraits, a hundred in number, published with the original
edition of it: many of them understood to be accurate likenesses.
The natural face of a man is often worth more than several bio-
graphies of him, as biographies are written. These hundred Por-
traits have been copied into a book called Scènes de la Révolution,
which contains other pictures, of small value, and some not useless
writing by Chamfort ; and are often to be found in libraries. A
republication of Vernet's Caricatures' would be a most acceptable
service, but has not been thought of hitherto. The second work
to be counted here is the Choia, des Rapports, Opinions et Discours,
in some twenty volumes, with an excellent index: parliamentary
speeches, reports, &c. are furnished in abundance; complete illus-
tration of all that this Senatorial province (rather a wearisome
one) can illustrate. Thirdly, we have to name the Collection of
Memoirs, completed several years ago, in above a hundred volumes.
Booksellers Baudouin, Editors Berville and Barrière, have done
their utmost ; adding notes, explanations, rectifications, with por-
traits also if you like : Louvet, Riouffe and the two volumes of Me-
moirs on the Prisons are the most attractive pieces. This Baudouin
Collection, therefore, joins itself to that of Petitot, as a natural
sequel.
And now a fourth work, which follows in the train of these,
* See Mercier's Wowveau Paris, vol. iv. p. 254.
124 MISCELLANIES.
and deserves to be reckoned along with them, is this Histoire Par-
lementaire of Messieurs Buchez and Roux. The Authors are men
of ability and repute; Buchez, if we mistake not, is Dr. Buchez,
and practises medicine with acceptance; Roux is known as an
essayist and journalist: they once listened a little to Saint-Simon,
but it was before Saint-Simonism called itself “a religion,' and
vanished in Bedlam. We have understood there is a certain bib-
liomaniac military gentleman in Paris, who in the course of years
has amassed the most astonishing collection of revolutionary ware:
books, pamphlets, newspapers, even sheets and handbills, epheme-
ral printings and paintings, such as the day brought them forth,
lie there without end." Into this warehouse, as indeed into all
manner of other repositories, Messrs. Buchez and Roux have hap-
pily found access: the Histoire Parlementaire is the fruit of their
labours there. A Number, two forming a Volume, is published
every fortnight: we have the first Twenty-two Volumes before us,
which bring-down the narrative to January 1793; there must be
several other Volumes out, which we have not yet seen. Conceive
a judicious compilation with such resources. Parliamentary De-
bates, in summary, or (where the occasion warrants it) given at
large; this is by no means the most interesting part of the matter:
we have excerpts, notices, hints of all imaginable sorts; of News-
papers, of Pamphlets, of Sectionary and Municipal Records, of the
Jacobins' Club, of Placardjournals, nay of Placards and Carica-
tures. No livelier emblem of the time, in its actual movement
and tumult, could be presented. The Editors connect these frag-
ments by expositions such as are needful; so that a reader coming
unprepared to the work can still know what he is about. Their
expositions, as we can testify, are handsomely done: but altogether
apart from these, the excerpts themselves are the valuable thing.
The scissors, in such a case, are independent of the pen. One of
the most interesting English biographies we have is that long thin
Folio on Oliver Cromwell, published some five-and-twenty years
ago, where the editor has merely clipt-out from the contemporary
newspapers whatsoever article, paragraph, or sentence he found
to contain the name of Old Noll, and printed them in the order of
their dates. It is surprising that the like has not been attempted
! It is generally known that a similar collection, perhaps still larger and
more curious, lies buried in the British Museum here, inaccessible for want of
a proper catalogue. Some eighteen months ago, the respectable sub-librarian
seemed to be working at such a thing : by respectful application to him, you
could gain access to his room, and have the satisfaction of mounting on ladders,
and reading the outside titles of his books, which was a great help. Otherwise
you could not in many weeks ascertain so much as the table of contents of this
repository; and, after days of weary waiting, dusty rummaging, and sickness
of hope deferred, gave-up the enterprise as a ‘game not worth the candle.”
HISTORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 125
in other cases. Had seven of the eight Translators of Faust, and
seventy-times-seven of the four-hundred-fourscore-and-ten Imagi-
native Authors, but thrown - down the writing-instrument, and
turned to the old newspaper-files judiciously with the cutting oneſ
We can testify, after not a little examination, that the Editors
of the Histoire Parlementaire are men of fidelity, of diligence; that
their accuracy in regard to facts, dates and so forth, is far beyond
the average. Of course they have their own opinions, preposses-
sions even ; but these are honest prepossessions, which they do
not hide; which one can estimate the force of, allow for the result
of Wilful faisification, did the possibility of it lie in their cha-
racter, is otherwise out of the question. But, indeed, our Editors
are men of earnestness, of strict principle; of a faith, were it only
in the republican Tricolor. Their democratic faith, truly, is palp-
able, thorough-going; as it has a right to be, in these days, since
it likes. The thing you have to praise, however, is that it is a
quiet faith, never an hysterical one; never expresses itself other-
wise than with a becoming calmness, especially with a becoming
brevity. The hoarse deep croak of Marat, the brilliant sharp-cut-
ting gaiety of Desmoulins, the dull bluster of Prudhomme, the
cackling garrulity of Brissot, all is welcomed with a cold gravity
and brevity; all is illustrative, if not of one thing, then of another.
Nor are the royalist Royous, Suleaus, Peltiers forgotten: Acts of
the Apostles, King's Friend, nor Crowing of the Cock: these, indeed,
are more sparingly administered; but at the right time, as is pro-
mised, we shall have more. In a word, it may be said of this His-
toire Parlementaire, that the wide promise held-out in its title-page
is really in some respectable measure fulfilled. With a fit Index
to wind it up (which Index ought to be not good only but excel-
lent, so much depends on it here), this Work bids fair to be one
of the most important yet published on the History of the Revo-
lution. No library, that professes to have a collection in this sort,
can dispense with it.
A Histoire Parlementaire is precisely the house, or say rather,
the unbuilt city, of which the single brick can form a specimen.
In so rich a variety, the only difficulty is where to choose. We
have scenes of tragedy, of comedy, of farce, of farce-tragedy often-
est of all; there is eloquence, gravity; there is bluster, bombast
and absurdity : scenes tender, scenes barbarous, spirit-stirring,
and then flatly wearisome : a thing waste, incoherent, wild to look
upon; but great with the greatness of reality; for the thing exhi-
bited is no vision, but a fact. Let us, as the first excerpt, give
this tragedy of old Foulon, which all the world has heard of, per-
haps not very accurately. Foulon's life-drama, with its hasty cruel
126 MISCELLANIES.
Sayings and mean doings, with its thousandfold intrigues, and
‘the people eating grass if they like,' ends in this miserable man-
ner. It is the Editors themselves who speak; compiling from
various sources:
‘Towards five in the morning (Paris, 22d July 1789), M. Foulon was
brought in; he had been arrested at Witry, near Fontainebleau, by the
peasants of the place. Doubtless this man thought himself very guilty
towards the people' (say, very hateful); ‘for he had spread-abroad a report
of his death; and had even buried one of his servants, who happened to
die then, under his own name. He had afterwards hidden himself in an
estate of M. de Sartines’; where he was detected and seized.
* M. Foulon was taken to the Hôtel-de-Ville, where they made him
wait. Towards nine o'clock, the assembled Committee had decided that
he should be sent to the Abbaye prison. M. de Lafayette was sent for,
that he might execute this order; he was abroad over the Districts: he
could not be found. During this time a crowd collected in the square;
and required to see Foulon. It was noon: M. Bailly came down; the
people listened to him; but still persisted. In the end they penetrated
into the great hall of the Hôtel-de-Ville; would see Foulon, “whom,” say
they, “you are wanting to smuggle-off from justice.” Foulon was pre-
sented to them. Then began this remarkable dialogue. M. de la Poize,
an Elector: “Messieurs, every guilty person should be judged.” “Yes,
judged directly, and then hanged.”—M. Osselin : “To judge, one must
have judges; let us send M. Foulon to the tribunals.” “No, no,” replied
the people; “judge him just now.”—“Since you will not have the common
judges,” said M. Osselin, “it is indispensable to appoint others.” “Well,
judge him yourselves.”—“We have no right either to judge or to create
judges; do you name them.” “Well,” cried the people, “M. le Curé of
Saint-Etienne then, and M. le Curé of Saint-André.”—Osselin: “Two
judges are not enough; there needs seven.” Thereupon the people named
Messrs. Quatremere, Warangue, &c. “Here are seven judges indeed,”
said Osselin; “but we still want a clerk.” “Be you clerk.”—“A king's
Attorney.” “Let it be M. Duveyrier.”—“Of what crime is M. Foulon ac-
cused ?” asked Duveyrier. “He wished to harass the people: he said he
would make them eat grass; he was in the plot; he was for national bank-
ruptcy; he bought-up corn.” The two curates then rose, and declared
that they refused to judge; the laws of the church not permitting them.
“They are right,” said some. “They are cozening us,” said others; “and
the prisoner all the while is making his escape.” At these words there
rose a frightful tumult in the Hall. “Messieurs,” said an Elector, “name
four of yourselves to guard him.” Four men accordingly were chosen;
sent into the neighbouring apartment, where Foulon was. “But will you
judge, then?” cried the crowd. “Messieurs, you see there are two judges
wanting.”—“We name M. Bailly and M. Lafayette.” “But M. Lafayette
is absent; one must either wait for him, or name some other.”—“Well,
then, name directly, and do it yourself.”
“At length the Electors agreed to proceed to judgment; Foulon was
again brought in. The foremost part of the crowd joined hands, and
formed a chain several ranks deep, in the middle of which he was received.
At this moment M. Lafayette came in ; went and took his place at the
board among the Electors; and then addressed to the people a discourse,
of which the Ami du Roi and the Records of the Town-hall, the two authori-
ties we borrow from here, give different reports.'
HISTORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 127
Lafayette's speech, according to both versions, is to the effect
that Foulon is guilty; but that he doubtless has accomplices; that
he must be taken to the Abbaye prison, and investigated there.
“Yes, yes, to prison 1 Off with him, off!” cried the crowd. The
Deua, Amis add another not insignificant circumstance, that poor
Foulon himself, hearing this conclusion of Lafayette's, clapped
hands; whereupon the crowd said, “See they are both in a
story !” Our Editors continue and conclude: .
“At this moment there rose a great clamour in the square. “It is the
Palais Royal coming,” said one. “It is the Faubourg Saint-Antoine,”
said another. Then a well-dressed person (homme bien mis) advanced
towards the board, and said, “Vous vous moquez / What is the use of
judging a man who has been judged these thirty years?” At this word,
Foulon was clutched; hurled-out to the square; and finally tied to the
fatal rope, which hung from the Lanterne at the corner of the Rue de la
Wannerie. The rope was afterwards cut; the head was put on a pike, and
paraded,'—with “grass' in the mouth of it, they might have added !!
The Révolutions de France et de Brabant, Camille Desmoulins's
Newspaper, furnishes numerous extracts, in the earlier Volumes;
always of a remarkable kind. This Procureur Général de la Lan-
terne has a place of his own in the history of the Revolution;
there are not many notabler persons in it than he. A light harm-
less creature ; as he says of himself, ‘a man born to write verses;’
but whom Destiny directed to overthrow Bastilles, and go to the
guillotine for doing that. How such a man will comport himself
in a French Revolution, as he from time to time turns-up there,
is worth seeing. Of loose headlong character; a man stuttering
in speech; stuttering, infirm in conduct too, till one huge idea
laid hold of him : a man for whom Art, Fortune or himself would
never do much, but to whom Nature had been very kind One
meets him always with a sort of forgiveness, almost of underhand
love, as for a prodigal son. He has good gifts, and even acquire-
ments ; elegant law-scholarship, quick sense, the freest joyful
heart: a fellow of endless wit, clearness, soft lambent brilliancy;
on any subject you can listen to him, if without approving, yet
without yawning. As a writer, in fact, there is nothing French,
that we have heard of, superior or equal to him for these fifty
years. Probably some French editor, some day or other, will sift
that journalistic rubbish, and produce out of it, in small neat com-
pass, a Life and Remains of this poor Camille. We pick-up three
light fractions, illustrative of him and of the things he moved in
they relate to the famous Fifth of October (1789), when the wo-
men rose in insurrection. The Palais Royal and Marquis Saint-
! Vol. ii. p. 148.
128 MISCELLANIES.
Huruge have been busy on the King's veto, and Lally Tollendal's
proposal of an upper house: .
“Was the Palais Royal so far wrong, says Camille, ‘to cry out against
such things? I know that the Palais-Royal Promenade is strangely mis-
cellaneous; that pickpockets frequently employ the liberty of the press
there, and many a zealous patriot has lost his handkerchief in the fire of
debate. But, for all that, I must bear honourable testimony to the pro-
menaders in this Lyceum and Stoa. The Palais-Royal Garden is the focus
of patriotism: there do the chosen patriots rendezvous, who have left
their hearths and their provinces to witness this magnificent spectacle of
the Revolution of 1789, and not to witness without aiding in it. They are
Frenchmen; they have an interest in the Constitution, and a right to
concur in it. How many Parisians too, instead of going to their Districts,
find it shorter to come at once to the Palais Royal? Here you have not to
ask a President if you may speak, and wait two hours till your turn comes.
You propose your motion; if it find supporters, they set you on a chair : if
you are applauded, you proceed to the redaction; if you are hissed, you go
your ways. It is very much the mode the Romans followed; their Forum
and our Palais Royal resemble one another.’”
Then, a few days farther on, the celebrated military dinner
at Versailles, with the white cockades, black cockades, and ‘O
Richard, O mon Roi!" having been transacted:
“Paris, Sunday 4th October. The King's Wife had been so gratified
with it, that this brotherly repast of Thursday must needs be repeated. It
was so on the Saturday, and with aggravations. Our patience was worn
out: you may suppose whatever patriot observers there were at Versailles
hastened to Paris with the news, or at least sent-off despatches containing
them. That same day (Saturday evening) all Paris set itself astir. It was
a lady, first, who, seeing that her husband was not listened-to at his Dis-
trict, came to the bar of the Café de Foi, to denounce the anti-national
cockades. M. Marat flies to Versailles; returns like lightning; makes a
noise like the four blasts of doom, crying to us, Awake, ye dead! Danton,
on his side, sounds the alarm in the Cordeliers. On Sunday this immortal
Cordeliers District posts its manifesto; and that very day they would have
gone to Versailles, had not M. Crevecoeur, their commandant, stood in the
way. People seek-out their arms, however; sally-out to the streets, in
chase of anti-national cockades. The law of reprisals is in force; these
cockades are torn off, trampled under foot, with menace of the Lanterne
in case of relapse. A military gentleman, picking-up his cockade, is for
fastening it on again; a hundred canes start into the air, saying Veto. The
whole Sunday passes in hunting-down the white and the black cockades;
in holding council at the Palais Royal, over the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, at
the end of Bridges, on the Quais. At the doors of the coffee-houses, there
arise free conferences between the Upper House, of the coats that are
within, and the Lower House, of jackets and wool-caps, assembled extra
muros. It is agreed upon that the audacity of the aristocrats increases
rapidly; that Madame Villepatour and the Queen's women are distributing
enormous white cockades to all comers in the CEil-de-Boeuf; that M. Le-
cointre, having refused to take one from their hands, has all but been
assassinated. It is agreed upon that we have not a moment to lose; that
1 Vol. ii. p. 414.
HISTORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 129
the boat which used to bring us flour from Corbeil morning and evening,
now comes only once in two days:—do they plan to make their attack at
the moment when they have kept us for eight-and-forty hours in a fasting
state? It is agreed upon,’ &c."
—We hasten to the catastrophe, which arrives on the morrow.
It is related elsewhere, in another leading article:
“At break of day, the women rush towards the Hôtel-de-Ville. All the
way, they recruit fresh hands, among their own sex, to march with them;
as sailors are recruited at London: there is an active press of women. The
Quai de la Ferraille is covered with female crimps. The robust kitchen-
maid, the slim mantua-maker, all must go to swell the phalanx; the ancient
devotee, tripping to mass in the dawn, sees herself for the first time carried
off, and shrieks Help / whilst more than one of the younger sort secretly
is not so sorry at going, without mother or mistress, to Versailles to pay
her respects to the august Assembly. At the same time, for the accuracy
of this narrative, I must remark that these women, at least the battalion of
them which encamped that night in the Assembly Hall, and had marched
under the flag of M. Maillard, had among themselves a Presidentess and
Staff; and that every woman, on being borrowed from her mother or hus-
band, was presented to the Presidentess or some of her aides-de-camp, who
engaged to watch over her morality, and insure her honour for this day.
‘ Once arrived on the Place de Grève, these women piously begin letting-
down the Lanterne; as in great calamities, you let down the shrine of
Saint Geneviève. Next they are for mounting into the Hôtel-de-Ville.
The Commandant had been forewarned of this movement; he knew that
all insurrections have begun by women, whose maternal bosom the bayonet
of the satellites of despotism respects. Four-thousand soldiers presented
a front bristling with bayonets; kept them back from the step: but behind
these women there rose and grew every moment a nucleus of men, armed
with pikes, axes, bills; blood is about to flow on the place; the presence
of these Sabine women hindered it. The National Guard, which is not
purely a machine, as the Minister of War would have the soldier be, makes
use of its reason. It discerns that these women, now for Versailles, are
going to the root of the mischief. The four-thousand Guards, already
getting saluted with stones, think it reasonablest to open a passage; and,
like waters through a broken dike, the floods of the multitude inundate
the Hôtel-de-Ville.
‘It is a picture interesting to paint, and one of the greatest in the Re-
volution, this same army of ten-thousand Judiths setting forth to cut-off
the head of Holofernes; forcing the Hôtel-de-Wille; arming themselves
with whatever they can lay hands on ; some tying ropes to the cannon-
trains, arresting carts, loading them with artillery, with powder and balls
for the Versailles National Guard, which is left without ammunition;
others driving-on the horses, or seated on cannon, holding the redoubtable
match; seeking for their generalissimo, not aristocrats with epaulettes,
but Conquerors of the Bastille !”
So far Camille on veto, scarcity and the Insurrection of Women,
in the end of 1789. As it is not fit that all our scenes should be
of tragedy or low-tragedy, the reader will perhaps consent now to
a touch of the moral-sublime. Let him enter the Hall of the Ja-
1 Vol. iii. p. 63. * Ibid. p. 110.
YOL. IV. R
130 MISCELLANIES.
cobins with us. All men have heard of the Jacobins' Club; but
not all would think of looking for comedy or the moral-sublime
there. Nevertheless so it is. Ah! the sublime of the Jacobins
was not always of the blue-light pandemonial sort; far otherwise
once We will give this passage from the Journal of the Jacobins'
Debates; not as one of the best, but as one of the pleasantest for
English readers. Fancy that high Hall, with its seats for fifteen-
hundred, “rising in amphitheatre to the cornice of the dome; its
Tribune elevated to mid air; Galleries and Ladies' Gallery full;
President seated; shrill Huissiers perambulating with their rods
and liveries, sounding forth “Silence 1 Silence 1” Consider that it is
the 18th of December 1791 (free monarchic constitution solemnly
accepted six weeks ago); and read:
“The confluence of strangers was so great that besides the new gallery
erected for them, the old ones were quite full, as well as those on the oppo-
site side of the Hall; and nevertheless a great multitude of citizens who
could not find room or admittance on any terms.
‘The reading of the announcements and select correspondence was
scarcely begun, when the Hall resounded with applauses at the entrance
of the three united Flags, of the English, the American and French Nation,
which were to be placed in the Hall; as the Society of Friends of the Revo-
lution in London had placed them in theirs. *
* Cries of “Liberty forever! The Nation forever! The three Free
Peoples of the Universe forever (Vivent les trois peuples libres de l'uni-
vers)!” are re-echoed with enthusiasm by the galleries and visitors: the
expression, no less sincere than lively, of that ardour, of that love for
Equality and Brotherhood, which Nature has engraved in the hearts of
all men; and which nothing but the continued efforts of despots, in all
classes, have managed to efface more or less.
‘A Deputation of Ladies is introduced; Ladies accustomed to honour
the galleries with their presence: they had solicited permission to offer a
pledge of their enthusiasm for Liberty to the Constitutional Whig, who
came lately to the National Assembly with the congratulation of this class
of free Englishmen.
“The Deputation enters, amid the applauses of the meeting: a young
Citizeness carries in her hand the Gift of these Ladies, lays it on the Pre-
sident's table, while the Lady-Deputies mount to the Tribune, to pronounce
the following discourse.
* The Lady-speaker. We are not Roman Dames; we bring no jewels;
but a tribute of gratitude for the feelings you have inspired us with. A
Constitutional Whig (Wigh), a Brother, an Englishman, formed, few days
ago, the object of one of your sweetest unitings (étreintes). What a charm
had that picture | Souls of sensibility were struck with it; our hearts are
yet full of emotion (Applause). This day you afford to that Brother, and
to yourselves, a new enjoyment: you suspend to the dome of our temple
three Flags, American, English, French.
* From all sides. The Three Nations, Vivent les trois nations ! Vive
la Liberté / -
‘Lady-speaker. The union of the Three free Peoples is to be cemented:
forbid not us also, Messieurs, to contribute towards that. Your pure feel-
ings prescribe it for us as a duty. Messieurs, accept a garland.—And you,
EIISTORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 131
English Brother, accept another from the hands of innocence: it is the
work of sisterhood; friendship gives it you. Receive also, O good Patriot,
in the name of the French Citoyennes who are here, this Ark of Alliance,
which we have brought for our brethren the Constitutional Whigs (Wighs):
within it are enclosed the Map of France, divided into eighty-three depart-
ments; the Cap of Liberty (Applause); the Book of the French Constitu-
tion; a Civic Crown; some Ears of Wheat (Applause); three Flags; a
National Cockade; and these words in the two languages, To live free or
die.
* The whole Hall. To live free or die! -
‘Lady-speaker. Let this immortal homage done to Liberty be, for the
English and the French, a sacred pledge of their union. Forget not to
tell our brothers how you have received it. Let it be deposited with
the brotherliest ceremonial Invite all Englishmen to participate in this
family act. Let it be precious to them as Nature herself.-Tell your
wives, repeat to your children, that innocent maids, faithful spouses, tender
mothers, after having done their household duties, and contributed to make
their families and husbands happy, came and made this offering to their
Country. Let one cry of gladness peal over Europe; let it roll across the
waters to America. Hark! Amid the echoes, Philadelphia and the Far
West repeat like us, Liberty forever !
* The whole Hall. Liberty forever !
‘Lady-speaker. Tyrants : your enemies declare themselves. Nations
will no longer battle with each other; straitly united, they will possess all
Languages, and make of them but one Language. Strong in their Freedom
they will be inseparable forever.—
“ Universal applauses: the Hall resounds long with cries, repeated by
the Galleries and the Society, of Vive la Nation, vive la Liberté ! The
Three Nations ! The Patriot Women :
“M. de la Source, Vice-president. Since Nature has willed that the
world should owe to you its sweetest moments, this enthusiasm of yours
with which you fill all hearts shall never be lost, never forgotten in the
flight of ages: it stands engraved on our hearts in indelible characters.--
(Then turning to the Deputies of the Whigs.) As for you, Brothers, tell
your countrymen what we are ; tell them that in France the women too
can love their country and show themselves worthy of Liberty; tell them
that the union, of which you see the emblems, shall be imperishable as
the Free Peoples are ; that we have henceforth only one sort of bonds,
the bonds which unite us to the Free, and that these shall be eternal as
virtue.
‘The Whig Deputy. Mesdames and M. le Président, I really am not
prepared to make a speech' (how true to the “leg-of-mutton or post-
prandial style !”)— for really I did not expect such a reception; but I
hope you will excuse me. I have written to England, I have described
the reception I met with here : I have had answers, but not from our
Society, because that requires time; the Society must meet first and then
answer.—I wish it were in my power’ (postprandially ) “to express what
my heart feels. This feeling towards you is not the work of a day, but
indeed that of a year (!), for in August last, our Society wrote to M. Pétion,
. hºwever, assures me that the Letter never reached him ; and there-
Ore—’l
—and so on, in the postprandial style; bringing down matters to
1 Tome xii. 379.
132 MISCELLANIES.
the solid business-level again. Few readers, it is to be expected,
have witnessed on the unelastic stage of mere Earth anything so
dramatic as this.
We terminate with a scene of a very different complexion,
though but some few months farther on, that is to say in Sep-
tember 17921 Félémhesi (anagram for Méhée Fils), in his Vérité
toute entière, a Pamphlet really more veracious than most, thus
testifies, after a good deal of preambling:
“I was going to my post about half-past two’ (Sunday the 2d of Sep-
tember, tocsins all ringing, and Brunswick just at hand); ‘I was passing
along the Rue Dauphine; suddenly I hear hisses. I look, I observe four
hackney-coaches, coming in a train, escorted by the Fédérés of the Depart-
ments.
* Each of these coaches contained four persons: they were individuals’
(priests) “arrested in the preceding domiciliary visits. Billaud-Varennes,
Procureur-Substitute of the Commune, had just been interrogating them
at the Hôtel-de-Ville; and now they were proceeding towards the Abbaye,
to be provisionally detained there. A crowd is gathering; the cries and
hisses redouble: one of the prisoners, doubtless out of his senses, takes
fire at these murmurs, puts his arm over the coach-door, gives one of the
Fédérés a stroke over the head with his cane. The Fédéré, in a rage,
draws his sabre, springs on the carriage-steps, and plunges it thrice-over
into the heart of his aggressor. I saw the blood come out in great jets.
“Kill every one of them ; they are scoundrels, aristocrats' cry the people.
The Fédérés all draw their sabres, and instantly kill the three companions
of the one who had just perished. I saw, at this moment, a young man in
a white nightgown stretch himself out of that same carriage: his counte-
nance, expressive but pale and worn, indicated that he was very sick; he
had gathered his staggering strength, and, though already wounded, was
crying still, “Grâce, grâce, Mercy, pardon . " but in vain;–a mortal stroke
united him to the lot of the others.
* This coach, which was the hindmost, now held nothing but corpses;
it had not stopped during the carnage, which lasted about the space of two
minutes. The crowd increases, crescit eundo ; the yells redouble. The
coaches are at the Abbaye. The corpses are hurled into the court; the
twelve living prisoners dismount to enter the committee-room. Two are
sacrificed on alighting; ten succeed in entering. The committee had not
had time to put the slightest question, when a multitude, armed with
pikes, sabres, swords and bayonets, dashes in, seizes the accused, and kills
them. One prisoner, already much wounded, kept hanging by the skirts
of a Committee-member, and still struggled against death.
* Three yet remained; one of whom was the Abbé Sicard, Teacher of
the Deaf and Dumb. The sabres were already over his head, when Monnot,
the watchmaker, flung himself before them, crying, “ Kill me rather, and
not this man, who is useful to our country !” These words, uttered with
the fire and impetuosity of a generous soul, suspended death. Profiting
by this moment of calm, Abbé Sicard and the other two were got conveyed
into the back part of the room.’
Abbé Sicard, as is well known, survived ; and the narrative
which he also published exists, sufficient to prove, among other
things, that ‘Félémhesi' had but two eyes, and his own share of
HISTORY OF THE FRENCEI REVOLUTION. 133
Sagacity and heart; that he has misseen, miscounted, and, know-
ingly or unknowingly, misstated not a little, as one poor man, in
these circumstances, might. Félémhesi continues, we only invert-
ing his arrangement somewhat :
‘Twelve scoundrels, presided by Maillard, with whom they had pro-
bably combined this project beforehand, find themselves “by chance”
among the crowd; and now, being well-known one to another, they unite
themselves “in the name of the sovereign people,” whether it were of
their own private audacity, or that they had secretly received superior
orders. They lay hold of the prison-registers, and turn them over; the
turnkeys fall a-trembling; the jailor's wife and the jailor faint ; the prison
is surrounded by furious men ; there is shouting, clamouring: the door
is assaulted, like to be forced; when one of the Committee-members pre-
sents himself at the outer gate, and begs audience: his signs obtain a
moment of silence; the doors open, he advances, gets a chair, mounts on
it, and speaks: “Comrades, friends,” said he, “you are good patriots;
your resentment is just. Open war to the enemies of the common good;
neither truce nor mercy; it is a war to the death ! I feel, like you, that
they must all perish. And yet, if you are good citizens, you must love
justice. There is not one of you but would shudder at the notion of shed-
ding innocent blood.” “Yes, yes!” reply the people.—“Well, then, I ask
of you if, without inquiry or investigation, you fling yourselves like mad
tigers on your fellowmen ?” Here the speaker is interrupted by one
of the crowd, who, with a bloody sabre in his hand, his eyes glancing with
rage, cleaves the press, and refutes him in these terms: “Tell us, Mon-
sieur le Citoyen, explain to us then, would the sacrés gueua, of Prussians
and Austrians, if they were at Paris, investigate for the guilty 2 Would
they not cut to the right and left, as the Swiss on the Tenth of August
did 2 Well! I am no speaker, I cannot stuff the ears of any one : but I
tell you, I have a wife and five children, whom I leave with my Section
here, while I go and fight the enemy; and it is not my bargain that the
villains in this Prison, whom other villains outside will open the door to,
shall go and kill my wife and children in the mean while ! I have three
boys, who I hope will be usefuller to their country one day than these
rascals you want to save. Any way, you have but to send them out; we
will give them arms, and fight them number for number. Die here, or
die on the frontiers, I am sure enough to be killed by these villains, one
day; but I mean to sell them my life; and, be it I, be it others, the Prison
shall be purged of these sacrés gueua lă.” “He is right!” responds the
general cry.”—And so the frightful ‘purgation’ proceeds.
“At five in the afternoon, Billaud-Warennes, Procureur - Substitute,
arrives; he had-on his sash, and the small puce coat and black wig we are
used to see on him : walking over carcasses, he makes a short harangue
to the people, and ends thus: “People, thou art sacrificing thy enemies;
thou art in thy duty.” This cannibal speech lends them new animation.
The killers blaze-up, cry louder than ever for new victims:—how to stanch
this new thirst of blood? A voice speaks from beside Billaud; it was
Maillard's voice: “There is nothing more to do here; let us to the
Carmes /* They run thither: in five minutes more, I saw them trailing
corpses by the heels. A killer (I cannot say a man), in very coarse clothes,
had, as it would seem, been specially commissioned to despatch the Abbé
Lenfant; for, apprehensive lest the prey might be missed, he takes water,
flings it on the corpses, washes their blood-smeared faces, turns them
134 MISCEI.LANIES.
over, and seems at last to ascertain that the Abbé Lenfant is among
them.”
This is the September Massacre, the last Scene we can give as
a specimen. Thus, in these curious records of the Histoire Parle-
mentaire, as in some Ezekiel Vision become real, does Scene after
Scene disclose itself, now in rose-light, now in sulphurous black,
and grow ever more fitful, dreamlike, till the Vendémiaire Scene
come, and Napoleon blow-forth his grape-shot, and Sansculottism
be no more
Touching the political and metaphysical speculations of our
two Editors, we shall say little. They are of the sort we lamented
in Mignet, and generally in Frenchmen of this day : a jingling
of formulas;–unfruitful as that Kalmuck prayerl Perhaps the
strangest-looking particular doctrine we have noticed is this: that
the French Revolution was at bottom an attempt to realise Chris-
tianity, and fairly put it in action, in our world. For eighteen
centuries (it is not denied) men had been doing more or less that
way; but they set their shoulder rightly to the wheel, and gave a
dead-lift, for the first time then. Good M. Roux' And yet the
good Roux does mean something by this; and even something
true. But a marginal annotator has written on our copy, “For
the love of Heaven, Messieurs, humez vos formules:’ make away
with your formulas; take off your facetted spectacles; open your
eyes a little, and look | There is, indeed, here and there, con-
siderable rumbling of the rotatory calabash, which rattles and
rumbles, concerning Progress of the Species, Doctrine du Progrés,
Ea:ploitations, le Christ, le Verbe, and what not; written in a vein
of deep, even of intense seriousness; but profitable, one would
think, to no man or woman. In this style M. Roux (for it is he,
we understand) painfully composes a Preface to each Volume, and
has even given a whole introductory History of France: we read
some seven or eight of his first Prefaces, hoping always to get
some nourishment; but seldom or never cut him open now. Fight-
ing, in that way, behind cover, he is comparatively harmless;
merely wasting you so many pence per number: happily the space
he takes is small. Whoever wants to form for himself an image
of the actual state of French Meditation, and under what sur-
prising shackles a French thinking man of these days finds him-
self gyved, and mechanised, and reduced to the verge of zero, may
open M. Roux's Prefaces, and see it as in an expressive summary.
We wish our two French friends all speed in their business;
and do again honestly recommend this Histoire Parlementaire to
any and all of our English friends who take interest in that subject.
- 1 Vol. xviii. p. 169. -
135
SIR WALTER SCOTT.l
[1838.]
AMERICAN Cooper asserts, in one of his books, that there is “an
instinctive tendency in men to look at any man who has become
distinguished.' True, surely: as all observation and survey of man-
kind, from China to Peru, from Nebuchadnezzar to Old Hickory,
will testify Why do men crowd towards the improved-drop at
Newgate, eager to catch a sight 2 The man about to be hanged
is in a distinguished situation. Men crowd to such extent, that
Greenacre's is not the only life choked-out there. Again, ask of
these leathern vehicles, cabriolets, neat-flies, with blue men and
women in them, that scour all thoroughfares, Whither so fast?
To see dear Mrs. Rigmarole, the distinguished female; great Mr.
Rigmarole, the distinguished male ! Or, consider that crowning
phenomenon, and summary of modern civilisation, a soirée of lions.
Glittering are the rooms, well-lighted, thronged; bright flows their
undulatory flood of blonde-gowns and dress-coats, a soft Smile
dwelling on all faces; for behold there also flow the lions, hover-
ing distinguished: oracles of the age, of one sort or another.
Oracles really pleasant to see; whom it is worth while to go and
see: look at them, but inquire not of them, depart rather and be
thankful. For your lion-soirée admits not of speech; there lies
the specialty of it. A meeting together of human creatures; and
yet (so high has civilisation gone) the primary aim of human
meeting, that soul might in some articulate utterance unfold itself
to soul, can be dispensed with in it. Utterance there is not; nay
there is a certain grinning play of tongue-fence, and make-believe
of utterance, considerably worse than none. For which reason it
has been suggested, with an eye to sincerity and silence in such
lion-Soirées, Might not each lion be, for example, ticketed, as wine-
decanters are 2 Let him carry, slung round him, in such orna-
mental manner as seemed good, his silver label with name en-
graved ; you lift his label, and read it, with what farther ocular
Survey you find useful, and speech is not needed at all. O Feni-
more Cooper, it is most true there is “an instinctive tendency in
1 LONDON AND WESTMINSTER REVIEW, No. 12.-Memoirs of the Life of
Sir Walter Scott, Baronet. Wols. i.-vi. Edinburgh, 1837.
136 MISCELLANIES.
men to look at any man that has become distinguished;’ and,
moreover, an instinctive desire in men to become distinguished
and be looked at .
For the rest, we will call it a most valuable tendency this ; in-
dispensable to mankind. Without it, where were star-and-garter,
and significance of rank; where were all ambition, money-getting,
respectability of gig or no gig ; and, in a word, the main impetus
by which society moves, the main force by which it hangs together?
A tendency, we say, of manifold results; of manifold origin, Inot
ridiculous only, but sublime;—which some incline to deduce from
the mere gregarious purblind nature of man, prompting him to
run, “as dim-eyed animals do, towards any glittering object, were
it but a scoured tankard, and mistake it for a solar luminary,” or
even “sheep-like, to run and crowd because many have already
run l’ It is, indeed, curious to consider how men do make the
gods that themselves worship. For the most famed man, round
whom all the world rapturously huzzahs and venerates, as if his
like were not, is the same man whom all the world was wont to
jostle into the kennels; not a changed man, but in every fibre of
him the same man. Foolish world, what went ye out to see ? A
tankard scoured bright: and do there not lie, of the self-same
pewter, whole barrowfuls of tankards, though by worse fortune all
still in the dim state 2
And yet, at bottom, it is not merely our gregarious sheep-like
quality, but something better, and indeed best: what has been
called ‘the perpetual fact of hero-worship ;' our inborn sincere
love of great men l Not the gilt farthing, for its own sake, do
even fools covet; but the gold guinea which they mistake it for.
Veneration of great men is perennial in the nature of man; this,
in all times, especially in these, is one of the blessedest facts
predicable of lim. In all times, even in these seemingly so dis-
obedient times, ‘it remains a blessed fact, so cunningly has Nature
‘ordered it, that whatsoever man ought to obey, he cannot but obey.
* Show the dullest clodpole, show the hapghtiest featherhead, that
“a soul higher than himself is actually here; were his knees
“stiffened into brass, he must down and worship.’ So it has been
written ; and may be cited and repeated till known to all. Under-
stand it well, this of “hero-worship' was the primary creed, and
has intrinsically been the secondary and ternary, and will be the
ultimate and final creed of mankind; indestructible, changing in
shape, but in essence unchangeable; whereon polities, religions,
loyalties, and all highest human interests have been and can be
built, as on a rock that will endure while man endures. Such is
hero-worship ; so much lies in that our inborn sincere love of
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 137
great men —In favour of which unspeakable benefits of the reality,
what can we do but cheerfully pardon the multiplex ineptitudes
of the semblance; cheerfully wish even lion-Soirées, with labels
for their lions or without that improvement, all manner of pros-
perity ? Let hero-worship flourish, say we ; and the more and
more assiduous chase after gilt farthings while guineas are not
yet forthcoming. Herein, at lowest, is proof that guineas exist,
that they are believed to exist, and valued. Find great men if
you can ; if you cannot, still quit not the search ; in defect of great
men, let there be noted men, in such number, to such degree of
intensity as the public appetite can tolerate.
Whether Sir Walter Scott was a great man, is still a question
with some ; but there can be no question with any one that he
was a most noted and even notable man. In this generation there
was no literary man with such a popularity in any country; there
have only been a few with such, taking-in all generations and all
countries. Nay, it is farther to be admitted that Sir Walter Scott's
popularity was of a select sort rather ; not a popularity of the
populace. His admirers were at one time almost all the intelli-
gent of civilised countries; and to the last, included and do still
include a great portion of that sort. Such fortune he had, and
has continued to maintain for a space of some twenty or thirty
years. So long the observed of all observers; a great man, or
only a considerable man; here surely, if ever, is a singularly cir-
cumstanced, is a “ distinguished’ man! In regard to whom, there-
fore, the ‘instinctive tendency' on other men's part cannot be
wanting. Let men look, where the world has already so long
looked. And now, while the new, earnestly expected Life ‘by his
son-in-law and literary executor’ again summons the whole world's
attention round him, probably for the last time it will ever be so
summoned; and men are in some sort taking leave of a notability,
and about to go their way, and commit him to his fortune on the
flood of things, why should not this Periodical Publication like-
wise publish its thought about him 2 Readers of miscellaneous
aspect, of unknown quantity and quality, are waiting to hear it
done. With small inward vocation, but cheerfully obedient to
destiny and necessity, the present reviewer will follow a multi-
tude: to do evil or to do no evil, will depend not on the multitude
but on himself. One thing he did decidedly wish; at least to wait
till the Work were finished: for the Six promised Volumes, as the
world knows, have flowed over into a Seventh, which will not for
some weeks yet see the light. But the editorial powers, wearied
with waiting, have become peremptory; and declare that, finished
138 MISCELLANIES.
f
or not finished, they will have their hands washed of it at this
opening of the year. Perhaps it is best. The physiognomy of
Scott will not be much altered for us by that Seventh Volume;
the prior Six have altered it but little;—as, indeed, a man who
has written some two-hundred volumes of his own, and lived for
thirty years amid the universal speech of friends, must have already
left some likeness of himself. Be it as the peremptory editorial
powers require.
First, therefore, a word on the Life itself. Mr. Lockhart's
known powers justify strict requisition in his case. Our verdict
in general would be, that he has accomplished the work he schemed
for himself in a creditable workmanlike manner. It is true, his
motion of what the work was, does not seem to have been very ele-
vated. To picture-forth the life of Scott according to any rules of
art or composition, so that a reader, on adequately examining it,
might say to himself, “There is Scott, there is the physiognomy
and meaning of Scott's appearance and transit on this earth; such
was he by nature, so did the world act on him, so he on the world,
with such result and significance for himself and us:” this was by
no manner of means Mr. Lockhart's plan. A plan which, it is
rashly said, should.preside over every biography . It might have
been fulfilled with all degrees of perfection, from that of the Odys-
sey down to Thomas Ellwood or lower. For there is no heroic
poem in the world but is at bottom a biography, the life of a man:
also, it may be said, there is no life of a man, faithfully recorded,
but is a heroic poem of its sort, rhymed or unrhymed. It is a plan
one would prefer, did it otherwise suit ; which it does not, in these
days. Seven volumes sell so much dearer than one; are so much
easier to write than one. The Odyssey, for instance, what were the
value of the Odyssey sold per sheet 2 One paper of Pickwick; or
say, the inconsiderable fraction of one. This, in commercial alge-
bra, were the equation: Odyssey equal to Pickwick divided by an
unknown integer.
There is a great discovery still to be made in Literature, that
of paying literary men by the quantity they do not write. Nay, in
sober truth, is not this actually the rule in all writing ; and, more-
over, in all conduct and acting? Not what stands aboveground,
but what lies unseen under it, as the root and subterrene element
it sprang from and emblemed forth, determines the value. Under
all speech that is good for anything there lies a silence that is
better. Silence is deep as Eternity; speech is shallow as Time.
Paradoxical does it seem 2 Woe for the age, woe for the man,
quack-ridden, bespeeched, bespouted, blown about like barren Sa-
hara, to whom this world-old truth were altogether strange —Such
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 139
we say is the rule, acted on or not, recognised or not ; and he who
departs from it, what can he do but spread himself into breadth
and length, into superficiality and saleability; and, except as fili-
gree, become comparatively useless 2 One thinks, Had but the
hogshead of thin wash, which sours in a week ready for the kennels,
been distilled, been concentrated 1 Our dear Fenimore Cooper,
whom we started with, might, in that way, have given us one
Natty Leatherstocking, one melodious synopsis of Man and Nature
in the West (for it lay in him to do it), almost as a Saint-Pierre did
for the Islands of the East ; and the hundred Incoherences, cob-
bled hastily together by order of Colburn and Company, had slum-
bered in Chaos, as all incoherences ought if possible to do. Verily
this same genius of diffuse-writing, of diffuse-acting, is a Moloch;
and souls pass through the fire to him, more than enough. Surely,
if ever discovery was valuable and needful, it were that above in-
dicated, of paying by the work not visibly done !—Which needful
discovery we will give the whole projecting, railwaying, knowledge-
diffusing, march-of-intellect and otherwise promotive and locomo-
tive societies in the Old and New World, any required length of
centuries to make. Once made, such discovery once made, we too
will fling cap into the air, and shout, “Io Paan 1 the Devil is con-
quered ;"—and, in the mean while, study to think it nothing mira-
culous that seven biographical volumes are given where one had
been better; and that several other things happen, very much as
they from of old were known to do, and are like to continue doing.
Mr. Lockhart's aim, we take it, was not that of producing any
such highflown work of art as we hint at: or indeed to do much
other than to print, intelligibly bound together by order of time,
and by some requisite intercalary exposition, all such letters, do-
cuments and notices about Scott as he found lying suitable, and as
it seemed likely the world would undertake to read. His Work,
accordingly, is not so much a composition, as what we may call a
compilation well done. Neither is this a task of no difficulty; this
too is a task that may be performed with extremely various degrees
of talent: from the Life and Correspondence of Hannah More, for
instance, up to this Life of Scott, there is a wide range indeed!
Let us take the Seven Volumes, and be thankful that they are
genuine in their kind. Nay, as to that of their being seven and
not one, it is right to say that the public so required it. To have
done other, would have shown little policy in an author. Had Mr.
Lockhart laboriously compressed himself, and instead of well-done
compilation, brought out the well-dome composition, in one volume
instead of seven, which not many men in England are better quali-
fied to do, there can be no doubt but his readers for the time had
I40 MISCELLANIES.
been immeasurably fewer. If the praise of magnanimity be denied
him, that of prudence must be conceded, which perhaps he values
IOROI’é.
The truth is, the work, done in this manner too, was good to
have: Scott's Biography, if uncomposed, lies printed and inde-
structible here, in the elementary state, and can at any time be
composed, if necessary, by whosoever has a call to that. As it is,
as it was meant to be, we repeat, the work is vigorously done.
Sagacity, decision, candour, diligence, good manners, good sense:
these qualities are throughout observable. The dates, calculations,
statements, we suppose to be all accurate; much laborious inquiry,
Some of it impossible for another man, has been gone into, the re-
sults of which are imparted with due brevity. Scott's letters, not
interesting generally, yet never absolutely without interest, are
copiously given ; copiously, but with selection; the answers to
them still more select. Narrative, delineation, and at length per-
Sonal reminiscences, occasionally of much merit, of a certain rough
force, sincerity and picturesqueness, duly intervene. The scattered
members of Scott's Life do lie here, and could be disentangled. In
a word, this compilation is the work of a manful, clear-seeing, con-
clusive man, and has been executed with the faculty and combina-
tion of faculties the public had a right to expect from the name
attached to it.
One thing we hear greatly blamed in Mr. Lockhart: that he has
been too communicative, indiscreet, and has recorded much that
ought to have lain suppressed. Persons are mentioned, and cir-
cumstances, not always of an ornamental sort. It would appear
there is far less reticence than was looked for Various persons,
name and surname, have “received pain :’ nay the very Hero of
the Biography is rendered unheroic ; unornamental facts of him,
and of those he had to do with, being set forth in plain English:
hence ‘personality,” “indiscretion,' or worse, “sanctities of private
life,’ &c. &c. How delicate, decent is English Biography, bless its
mealy mouth ! A Damocles' sword of Respectability hangs forever
over the poor English Life-writer (as it does over poor English
Life in general), and reduces him to the verge of paralysis. Thus
it has been said, “there are no English lives worth reading except
‘ those of Players, who by the nature of the case have bidden Re-
‘spectability good-day.' The English biographer has long felt that
if in writing his Man's Biography, he wrote down anything that
could by possibility offend any man, he had written wrong. The
plain consequence was, that, properly speaking, no biography what-
ever could be produced. The poor biographer, having the fear not
of God before his eyes, was obliged to retire as it were into va-
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 141
cuum ; and write in the most melancholy, straitened manner, with
only vacuum for a result. Vain that he wrote, and that we kept
reading volume on volume : there was no biography, but some
vague ghost of a biography, white, stainless; without feature or
substance; vacuum, as we say, and wind and shadow, which in-
deed the material of it was.
No man lives without jostling and being jostled ; in all ways
he has to elbow himself through the world, giving and receiving
offence. His life is a battle, in so far as it is an entity at all. The
very oyster, we suppose, comes in collision with oysters: undoubt-
edly enough it does come in collision with Necessity and Diffi-
culty; and helps itself through, not as a perfect ideal oyster, but
as an imperfect real one. Some kind of remorse must be known
to the oyster; certain hatreds, certain pusillanimities. But as for
man, his conflict is continual with the spirit of contradiction, that is
without and within ; with the evil spirit (or call it, with the weak,
most necessitous, pitiable spirit), that is in others and in himself.
His walk, like all walking (say the mechanicians), is a series of falls.
To paint man's life is to represent these things. Let them be repre-
sented, fitly, with dignity and measure ; but above all, let them be
represented. No tragedy of Hamlet with the part of Hamlet omit-
ted by particular desire ! No ghost of a biography, let the Damo-
cles' sword of Respectability (which, after all, is but a pasteboard
one) threaten as it will ! One hopes that the public taste is much
mended in this matter; that vacuum-biographies, with a good many
other vacuities related to them, are withdrawn or withdrawing into
vacuum. Probably it was Mr. Lockhart's feeling of what the great
public would approve, that led him, open-eyed, into this offence
against the small criticising public : we joyfully accept the omen.
Perhaps then, of all the praises copiously bestowed on his
Work, there is none in reality so creditable to him as this same
censure, which has also been pretty copious. It is a censure bet-
ter than a good many praises. He is found guilty of having said
this and that, calculated not to be entirely pleasant to this man
and that ; in other words, calculated to give him and the thing he
worked in a living set of features, not leave him vague, in the white
beatified-ghost condition. Several men, as we hear, cry out, “See,
there is something written not entirely pleasant to me !” Good
friend, it is pity; but who can help it? They that will crowd
about bonfires may, sometimes very fairly, get their beards singed;
it is the price they pay for such illumination; natural twilight is
safe and free to all. For our part, we hope all manner of biogra-
phies that are written in England will henceforth be written so.
If it is fit that they be written otherwise, then it is still fitter that
*
142 MISCELLANIES.
they be not written at all: to produce not things but ghosts of
things can never be the duty of man. The biographer has this
problem set before him : to delineate a likeness of the earthly pil-
grimage of a man. He will compute well what profit is in it,
and what disprofit; under which latter head this of offending any
of his fellow-creatures will surely not be forgotten. Nay, this may
so swell the disprofit side of his account, that many an enterprise
of biography, otherwise promising, shall require to be renounced.
But once taken up, the rule before all rules is to do it, not to do
the ghost of it. In speaking of the man and men he has to deal
with, he will of course keep all his charities about him ; but all
his eyes open. Far be it from him to set down aught untrue ; nay,
not to abstain from, and leave in oblivion, much that is true. But
having found a thing or things essential for his subject, and well
computed the for and against, he will in very deed set down such
thing or things, nothing doubting, having, we may say, the fear
of God before his eyes, and no other fear whatever. Censure the
biographer's prudence; dissent from the computation he made, or
agree with it; be all malice of his, be all falsehood, may be all
offensive avoidable inaccuracy, condemned and consumed ; but
know that by this plan only, executed as was possible, could the
biographer hope to make a biography; and blame him not that he
did what it had been the worst fault not to do.
As to the accuracy or error of these statements about the Bal-
lantynes and other persons aggrieved, which are questions much
mooted at present in some places, we know nothing at all. If they
are inaccurate, let them be corrected; if the inaccuracy was avoid-
able, let the author bear rebuke and punishment for it. We can
only say, these things carry no look of inaccuracy on the face of
them ; neither is anywhere the smallest trace of ill-will or unjust
feeling discernible. Decidedly the probabilities are, and till better
evidence arise, the fair conclusion is, that this matter stands very
much as it ought to do. Let the clatter of censure, therefore,
propagate itself as far as it can. For Mr. Lockhart it virtually
amounts to this very considerable praise, that, standing full in the
face of the public, he has set at naught, and been among the first
to do it, a public piece of cant; one of the commonest we have,
and closely allied to many others of the fellest sort, as smooth as
it looks.
The other censure, of Scott being made unheroic, springs from
the same stem ; and is, perhaps, a still more wonderful flower of
it. Your true hero must have no features, but be white, stainless,
an impersonal ghost-hero ! But connected with this, there is a
hypothesis now current, due probably to some man of name, for
*
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 143
its own force would not carry it far: That Mr. Lockhart at heart
has a dislike to Scott, and has done his best in an underhand
treacherous manner to dishero him " Such hypothesis is actually
current : he that has ears may hear it now and then. On which
astonishing hypothesis, if a word must be said, it can only be an
apology for silence,—“That there are things at which one stands
struck silent, as at first sight of the Infinite.” For if Mr. Lock-
hart is fairly chargeable with any radical defect, if on any side his
insight entirely fails him, it seems even to be in this, that Scott is
altogether lovely to him; that Scott's greatness spreads out for
him on all hands beyond reach of eye; that his very faults become
beautiful, his vulgar worldlinesses are solid prudences, proprieties;
and of his worth there is no measure. Does not the patient Bio-
grapher dwell on his Abbots, Pirates, and hasty theatrical scene-
paintings; affectionately analysing them, as if they were Raphael
pictures, time-defying Hamlets, Othellos ? The Novel-manufactory,
with its 15,000l. a-year, is sacred to him as creation of a genius,
which carries the noble victor up to Heaven. Scott is to Lockhart
the unparalleled of the time; an object spreading-out before him
like a sea without shore. Of that astonishing hypothesis, let ex-
pressive silence be the only answer.
And so in sum, with regard to Lockhart's Life of Scott, readers
that believe in us shall read it with the feeling that a man of
talent, decision and insight wrote it; wrote it in seven volumes,
not in one, because the public would pay for it better in that state ;
but wrote it with courage, with frankness, sincerity; on the whole,
in a very readable, recommendable manner, as things go. Whoso-
ever needs it can purchase it, or purchase the loan of it, with as-
surance more than usual that he has ware for his money. And
now enough of the written Life : we will glance a little at the man
and his acted life.
Into the question whether Scott was a great man or not, we do
not propose to enter deeply. It is, as too usual, a question about
words. There can be no doubt but many men have been named
and printed great who were vastly smaller than he : as little doubt
moreover that of the specially good, a very large portion, according
to any genuine standard of man's worth, were worthless in com-
parison to him. He for whom Scott is great may most innocently
name him so ; may with advantage admire his great qualities, and
ought with sincere heart to emulate them. At the same time, it is
good that there be a certain degree of precision in our epithets.
It is good to understand, for one thing, that no popularity, and
open-mouthed wonder of all the world, continued even for a long
144 MISCELLANIES,
series of years, can make a man great. Such popularity is a re-
markable fortune; indicates a great adaptation of the man to his
element of circumstances; but may or may not indicate anything
great in the man. To our imagination, as above hinted, there is a
certain apotheosis in it; but in the reality no apotheosis at all.
Popularity is as a blaze of illumination, or alas, of conflagration,
kindled round a man; showing what is in him ; not putting the
smallest item more into him ; often abstracting much from him ;
conflagrating the poor man himself into ashes and caput mortuum !
And then, by the nature of it, such popularity is transient; your
‘series of years,' quite unexpectedly, sometimes almost all on a
sudden, terminates | For the stupidity of men, especially of men
congregated in masses round any object, is extreme. What illumi-
nations and conflagrations have kindled themselves, as if new hea-
venly suns had risen, which proved only to be tar-barrels, and ter-
restrial locks of straw . Profane Princesses cried out, “One God,
one Farinelli !”—and whither now have they and Farinelli danced 2
In Literature too, there have been seen popularities greater even
than Scott's, and nothing perennial in the interior of them. Lope
de Vega, whom all the world swore by, and made a proverb of:
who could make an acceptable five-act tragedy in almost as many
hours; the greatest of all popularities past or present, and perhaps
one of the greatest men that ever ranked among popularities: Lope
himself, so radiant, far-shining, has not proved to be a sun or star
of the firmament; but is as good as lost and gone out; or plays at
best, in the eyes of some few, as a vague aurora-borealis, and bril-
liant ineffectuality. The great man of Spain sat obscure at the
time, all dark and poor, a maimed soldier; writing his Don Quia!ote
in prison. And Lope's fate withal was sad, his popularity perhaps
a curse to him; for in this man there was something ethereal too,
a divine particle traceable in few other popular men; and such far-
shining diffusion of himself, though all the world swore by it,
would do nothing for the true life of him even while he lived: he
had to creep into a convent, into a monk's cowl, and learn, with
infinite sorrow, that his blessedness had lain elsewhere; that when
a man's life feels itself to be sick and an error, no voting of by-
standers can make it well and a truth again. Or coming down to
our own times, was not August Kotzebue popular 2 Kotzebue,
not so many years since, saw himself, if rumour and hand-clap-
ping could be credited, the greatest man going; saw visibly his
Thoughts, dressed-out in plush and pasteboard, permeating and
perambulating civilised Europe; the most iron visages weeping
with him, in all theatres from Cadiz to Kamtchatka ; his own ‘as-
tonishing genius,' meanwhile, producing two tragedies or so per
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 145
month : he, on the whole, blazed high enough: he too has gone
out into Night and Orcus, and already is not. We will omit this
of popularity altogether; and account it as making simply nothing
towards Scott's greatness or non-greatness, as an accident, not a
quality.
Shorn of this falsifying nimbus, and reduced to his own natural
dimensions, there remains the reality, Walter Scott, and what we
can find in him: to be accounted great, or not great, according to
the dialects of men. Friends to precision of epithet will probably
deny his title to the name “great.' It seems to us there goes other
stuff to the making of great men than can be detected here. One
knows not what idea worthy of the name of great, what purpose,
instinct or tendency, that could be called great, Scott ever was
inspired with. His life was worldly; his ambitions were worldly.
There is nothing spiritual in him; all is economical, material, of
the earth earthy. A love of picturesque, of beautiful, vigorous and
graceful things; a genuine love, yet not more genuine than has
dwelt in hundreds of men named minor poets: this is the highest
quality to be discerned in him. His power of representing these
things too, his poetic power, like his moral power, was a genius
in eaſtenso, as we may say, not in intenso. In action, in speculation,
broad as he was, he rose nowhere high; productive without mea-
sure as to quantity, in quality he for the most part transcended
but a little way the region of commonplace. It has been said, “no
man has written as many volumes with so few sentences that can
be quoted.’ Winged words were not his vocation; nothing urged
him that way: the great Mystery of Existence was not great to
him; did not drive him into rocky solitudes to wrestle with it for
an answer, to be answered or to perish. He had nothing of the
martyr; into no “dark region to slay monsters for us,” did he,
either led or driven, venture down: his conquests were for his
own behoof mainly, conquests over common market-labour, and
reckonable in good metallic coin of the realm. The thing he had
faith in, except power, power of what sort soever, and even of the
rudest sort, would be difficult to point out. One sees not that he
believed in anything; nay, he did not even disbelieve; but quietly
acquiesced, and made himself at home in a world of convention-
alities; the false, the semi-false and the true were alike true in
this, that they were there, and had power in their hands more or
less. It was well to feel so; and yet not well! We find it written,
‘Woe to them that are at ease in Zion;' but surely it is a double
woe to them that are at ease in Babel, in Domdaniel. On the
other hand, he wrote many volumes, amusing many thousands
of men. Shall we call this great? It seems to us there dwells
WOL. IV. L
:
146 MISCELLANIES,
and struggles another sort of spirit in the inward parts of great
men
Brother Ringletub, the missionary, inquired of Ram-Dass, a
Hindoo man-god, who had set up for godhood lately, What he
meant. to do, then, with the sins of mankind? To which Ram-
Dass at once answered, He had fire enough in his belly to burn-up
all the sins in the world. Ram-Dass was right so far, and had a
spice of sense in him; for surely it is the test of every divine man
this same, and without it he is not divine or great, that he have
fire in him to burn-up somewhat of the sins of the world, of the
miseries and errors of the world: why else is he there ? Far be
it from us to say that a great man must needs, with benevolence
prepense, become a ‘friend of humanity; nay, that such profes-
sional self-conscious friends of humanity are not the fatallest kind
of persons to be met with in our day. All greatness is unconsci-
ous, or it is little and naught. And yet a great man without such
fire in him, burning dim or developed, as a divine behest in his
heart of hearts, never resting till it be fulfilled, were a solecism in
Nature. A great man is ever, as the Transcendentalists speak,
possessed with an idea. Napoleon himself, not the superfinest of
great men, and ballasted sufficiently with prudences and egoisms,
had nevertheless, as is clear enough, an idea to start with: the
idea that Democracy was the Cause of Man, the right and infinite
Cause. Accordingly he made himself ‘the armed Soldier of De-
mocracy;’ and did vindicate it in a rather great manner. Nay, to
the very last, he had a kind of idea; that, namely, of “La carrière
ouverte aua talens, The tools to him that can handle them;’ really
one of the best ideas yet promulgated on that matter, or rather
the one true central idea, towards which all the others, if they
tend anywhither, must tend. Unhappily it was in the military
province only that Napoleon could realise this idea of his, being
forced to fight for himself the while : before he got it tried to any
extent in the civil province of things, his head by much victory
grew light (no head can stand more than its quantity); and he
lost head, as they say, and became a selfish ambitionist and quack,
and was hurled out; leaving his idea to be realised, in the civil
province of things, by others | Thus was Napoleon; thus are all
great men: children of the idea; or, in Ram-Dass's phraseology,
furnished with fire to burn-up the miseries of men. Conscious or
unconscious, latent or unfoided, there is small vestige of any such
fire being extant in the inner-man of Scott.
Yet on the other hand, the surliest critic must allow that Scott
was a genuine man, which itself is a great matter. No affectation,
fantasticality, or distortion, dwelt in him; no shadow of cant.
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 147
Nay withal, was he not a right brave and strong man, according
to his kind? What a load of toil, what a measure of felicity, he
quietly bore along with him; with what quiet strength he both
worked on this earth, and enjoyed in it; invincible to evil fortune
and to good A most composed invincible man; in difficulty
and distress knowing no discouragement, Samson-like carrying off
on his strong Samson-shoulders the gates that would imprison
him; in danger and menace laughing at the whisper of fear. And
then, with such a Sunny current of true humour and humanity, a
free joyful sympathy with so many things; what of fire he had
all lying so beautifully latent, as radical latent heat, as fruitful in-
ternal warmth of life; a most robust, healthy man The truth is,
our best definition of Scott were perhaps even this, that he was, if
no great man, then something much pleasanter to be, a robust,
thoroughly healthy and withal very prosperous and victorious man.
An eminently well-conditioned man, healthy in body, healthy in
soul; we will call him one of the healthiest of men. Neither is this
a small matter: health is a great matter, both to the possessor of
it and to others. On the whole, that humorist in the Moral Essay
was not so far out, who determined on honouring health only; and
so instead of humbling himself to the highborn, to the rich and
well-dressed, insisted on doffing hat to the healthy: coroneted car-
riages with pale faces in them passed by as failures, miserable and
lamentable; trucks with ruddy-cheeked strength dragging at them
were greeted as successful and venerable. For does not health
mean harmony, the synonym of all that is true, justly-ordered,
good; is it not, in some sense, the net total, as shown by experi-
ment, of whatever worth is in us? The healthy man is a most
meritorious product of Nature so far as he goes. A healthy body
is good; but a soul in right health, it is the thing beyond all
others to be prayed for; the blessedest thing this earth receives
of Heaven. Without artificial medicament of philosophy, or tight-
lacing of creeds (always very questionable), the healthy soul dis-
cerns what is good, and adheres to it, and retains it; discerns what
is bad, and spontaneously casts it off. An instinct from Nature
herself, like that which guides the wild animals of the forest to
their food, shows him what he shall do, what he shall abstain
from. The false and foreign will not adhere to him; cant and all
fantastic diseased incrustations are impossible;—as Walker the
Original, in such eminence of health was he for his part, could not,
by much abstinence from soap-and-water, attain to a dirty face
This thing thou canst work with and profit by, this thing is sub-
stantial and worthy; that other thing thou canst not work with,
it is trivial and inapt: so speaks unerringly the inward monition
148 MISCELLANIES,
of the man's whole nature. No need of logic to prove the most
argumentative absurdity absurd; as Goethe says of himself, ‘all
this ran down from me like water from a man in wax-cloth dress.'
Blessed is the healthy nature; it is the coherent, sweetly coöpe-
rative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one ! In .
the harmonious adjustment and play of all the faculties, the just
balance of oneself gives a just feeling towards all men and all
things. Glad light from within radiates outwards, and enlightens
and embellishes. -
Now all this can be predicated of Walter Scott, and of no British
literary man that we remember in these days, to any such extent,
if it be not perhaps of one, the most opposite imaginable to Scott,
but his equal in this quality and what holds of it: William Cob-
bett! Nay, there are other similarities, widely different as they
two look; nor be the comparison disparaging to Scott: for Cob-
bett also, as the pattern John Bull of his century, strong as the
rhinoceros, and with singular humanities and genialities shining
through his thick skin, is a most brave phenomenon. So boun-
teous was Nature to us; in the sickliest of recorded ages, when
British Literature lay all puking and sprawling in Werterism,
Byronism, and other Sentimentalism tearful or spasmodic (fruit
of internal wind), Nature was kind enough to send us two healthy
Men, of whom she might still say, not without pride, “These also
were made in England; such limbs do I still make there !” It is
one of the cheerfullest sights, let the question of its greatness be
settled as you will. A healthy nature may or may not be great ;
but there is no great nature that is not healthy.
Or, on the whole, might we not say, Scott, in the new vesture
of the nineteenth century, was intrinsically very much the old
fighting Borderer of prior centuries; the kind of man Nature did
of old make in that birthland of his 2 In the saddle, with the
foray-spear, he would have acquitted himself as he did at the desk
with his pen. One fancies how, in stout Beardie of Harden's time,
he could have played Beardie's part; and been the stalwart buff-
belted terra filius he in this late time could only delight to draw.
The same stout self-help was in him ; the same oak and triple
brass round his heart. He too could have fought at Redswire,
cracking crowns with the fiercest, if that had been the task; could
have harried cattle in Tynedale, repaying injury with compound
interest; a right sufficient captain of men. A man without qualms
or fantasticalities; a hard-headed, sound-hearted man, of joyous
robust temper, looking to the main chance, and fighting direct
thitherward; valde stalwartus homo!—How much in that case had
slumbered in him, and passed away without sign But indeed,
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 149
who knows how much slumbers in many men 2 Perhaps our
greatest poets are the mute Miltons; the vocals are those whom
by happy accident we lay hold of, one here, one there, as it
chances, and make vocal. It is even a question, whether, had not
want, discomfort and distress-warrants been busy at Stratford-on-
Avon, Shakspeare himself had not lived killing calves or combing
wool! Had the Edial Boarding-school turned out well, we had
never heard of Samuel Johnson ; Samuel Johnson had been a fat
schoolmaster and dogmatic gerundgrinder, and never known that
he was more. Nature is rich: those two eggs thou art eating
carelessly to breakfast, could they not have been hatched into a
pair of fowls, and have covered the whole world with poultry 2
But it was not harrying of cattle in Tynedale, or cracking of
crowns at Redswire, that this stout Border-chief was appointed to
perform. Far other work. To be the song-singer and pleasant
tale-teller to T3ritain and Europe, in the beginning of the artificial
nineteenth century; here, and not there, lay his business. Beardie
of Harden would have found it very amazing. How he shapes
himself to this new element; how he helps himself along in it,
makes it too do for him, lives sound and victorious in it, and leads
over the marches such a spoil as all the cattle-droves the Hardens
ever took were poor in comparison to ; this is the history of the
life and achievements of our Sir Walter Scott, Baronet; – whereat
we are now to glance for a little ! It is a thing remarkable ; a
thing substantial; of joyful, victorious sort; not unworthy to be
glanced at. Withal, however, a glance here and there will suffice.
Our limits are narrow; the thing, were it never so victorious, is not
of the sublime sort, nor extremely edifying; there is nothing in it
to censure vehemently, nor love vehemently; there is more to won-
der at than admire ; and the whole secret is not an abstruse one.
Till towards the age of thirty, Scott's life has nothing in it de-
cisively pointing towards Literature, or indeed towards distinctivit
of any kind ; he is wedded, settled, and has gone through all his
preliminary steps, without symptom of renown as yet. It is the
life of every other Edinburgh youth of his station and time. For-
tunate we must name it, in many ways. Parents in easy or wealthy
circumstances, yet unencumbered with the cares and perversions
of aristocracy; nothing eminent in place, in faculty or culture, yet
nothing deficient; all around is methodic regulation, prudence,
prosperity, kind-heartedness; an element of warmth and light, of
affection, industry and burgherly comfort, heightened into ele.
gance; in which the young heart can wholesomely grow. A vigºr:
ous health seems to have been given by Nature; yet, as if Natiºne:
150 MISCELLANIES.
had said withal, “Let it be a health to express itself by mind, not
by body,” a lameness is added in childhood; the brave little boy,
instead of romping and bickering, must learn to think; or at
lowest, what is a great matter, to sit still. No rackets and trund-
ling-hoops for this young Walter; but ballads, history-books and
a world of legendary stuff, which his mother and those near him
are copiously able to furnish. Disease, which is but Superficial,
aud issues in outward lameness, does not cloud the young exist-
ence; rather forwards it towards the expansion it is fitted for.
The miserable disease had been one of the internal nobler parts,
marring the general organisation; under which no Walter Scott
could have been forwarded, or with all his other endowments
could have been producible or possible. “Nature gives healthy
‘children much ; how much ! Wise education is a wise unfolding
* of this; often it unfolds itself better of its own accord.”
Add one other circumstance : the place where; namely, Pres-
byterian Scotland. The influences of this are felt incessantly, they
stream-in at every pore. ‘There is a country accent,’ says La
Rochefoucault, “not in speech only, but in thought, conduct, cha-
racter and manner of existing, which never forsakes a man.' Scott,
we believe, was all his days an Episcopalian Dissenter in Scotland;
but that makes little to the matter. Nobody who knows Scotland
and Scott can doubt but Presbyterianism too had a vast share
in the forming of him. A country where the entire people is, or
even once has been, laid hold of, filled to the heart with an infinite
religious idea, has “made a step from which it cannot retrograde.”
Thought, conscience, the sense that man is denizen of a Universe,
creature of an Eternity, has penetrated to the remotest cottage, to
the simplest heart. Beautiful and awful, the feeling of a Heavenly
Behest, of Duty god-commanded, over-canopies all life. There is
an inspiration in such a people : one may say in a more special
sense, ‘the inspiration of the Almighty giveth them understand-
ing.' Honour to all the brave and true; everlasting honour to
brave old Knox, one of the truest of the true! That, in the mo-
ment while he and his cause, amid civil broils, in convulsion and
confusion, were still but struggling for life, he sent the schoolmas-
ter forth to all corners, and said, “Let the people be taught:” this
is but one, and indeed an inevitable and comparatively inconsider-
able item in his great message to men. His message, in its true
compass, was, “Let men know that they are men; created by God,
responsible to God; who work in any meanest moment of time
what will last through eternity.” It is verily a great message.
:Nºt ploughing and hammering machines, not patent-digesters
Iniver so ornamental) to digest the produce of these: no, in no
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 151
wise; born slaves neither of their fellow-men, nor of their own
appetites; but men . This great message Knox did deliver, with
a man's voice and strength; and found a people to believe him.
Of such an achievement, we say, were it to be made once only,
the results are immense. Thought, in such a country, may change
its form, but cannot go out; the country has attained majority;
thought, and a certain spiritual manhood, ready for all work that
man can do, endures there. It may take many forms: the form of
hard-fisted money-getting industry, as in the vulgar Scotchman, in
the vulgar New Englander; but as compact developed force and
alertness of faculty, it is still there; it may utter itself, one day,
as the colossal Scepticism of a Hume (beneficent this too though
painful, wrestling Titan-like through doubt and inquiry towards
new belief); and again, some better day, it may utter itself as the
inspired Melody of a Burns: in a word, it is there, and continues
to manifest itself, in the Voice and the Work of a Nation of hardy
endeavouring considering men, with whatever that may bear in it,
or unfold from it. The Scotch national character originates in
many circumstances; first of all, in the Saxon stuff there was to
work on ; but next, and beyond all else except that, in the Pres-
byterian Gospel of John Knox. It seems a good national charac-
ter; and, on some sides, not so good. Let Scott thank John Knox,
for he owed him much, little as he dreamed of debt in that quar-
ter! No Scotchman of his time was more entirely Scotch than
Walter Scott: the good and the not so good, which all Scotchmen
inherit, ran through every fibre of him.
Scott's childhood, school-days, college-days, are pleasant to read
of, though they differ not from those of others in his place and
time. The memory of him may probably enough last till this re-
cord of them become far more curious than it now is. “So lived an
Edinburgh Writer to the Signet's son in the end of the eighteenth
century,” may some future Scotch novelist say to himself in the
end of the twenty-first ! The following little fragment of infancy
is all we can extract. It is from an Autobiography which he had
begun, which one cannot but regret he did not finish. Scott's
best qualities never shone-out more freely than when he went
upon anecdote and reminiscence. Such a master of narrative and
of himself could have done personal narrative well. Here, if any-
where, his knowledge was complete, and all his humour and good-
humour had free scope:
“An odd incident is worth recording. It seems, my mother had sent a
maid to take charge of me, at this farm of Sandy-Knowe, that I might be
no inconvenience to the family. But the damsel sent on that importadt
mission had left her heart behind her, in the keeping of some wild fellot:
*g
e 2 e º e
:
152 MISCELLANIES.
:
it is likely, who had done and said more to her than he was like to make
good. She became extremely desirous to return to Edinburgh; and, as
my mother made a point of her remaining where she was, she contracted a
sort of hatred at poor me, as the cause of her being detained at Sandy-
Knowe. This rose, I suppose, to a sort of delirious affection; for she con-
fessed to old Alison Wilson, the housekeeper, that she had carried me up
to the craigs under a strong temptation of the Devil to cut my throat with
her scissors, and bury me in the moss. Alison instantly took possession
of my person, and took care that her confidant should not be subject to
any farther temptation, at least so far as I was concerned. She was dis-
missed of course, and I have heard afterwards became a lunatic.
‘It is here, at Sandy-Knowe, in the residence of my paternal grand-
father, already mentioned, that I have the first consciousness of existence;
and I recollect distinctly that my situation and appearance were a little
whimsical. Among the odd remedies recurred to, to aid my lameness,
some one had recommended that so often as a sheep was killed for the use
of the family, I should be stripped, and swathed-up in the skin warm as it
was flayed from the carcass of the animal. In this Tartar-like habiliment
I well remember lying upon the floor of the little parlour in the farm-
house, while my grandfather, a venerable old man with white hair, used
every excitement to make me try to crawl. I also distinctly remember the
late Sir George M*Dougal of Mackerstown, father of the present Sir Henry
Hay M*Dougal, joining in the attempt. He was, God knows how, a rela-
tion of ours; and I still recollect him, in his old-fashioned military habit
(he had been Colonel of the Greys), with a small cocked-hat deeply laced,
an embroidered scarlet waistcoat, and a light-coloured coat, with milk-white
locks tied in a military fashion, kneeling on the ground before me, and
dragging his watch along the carpet to induce me to follow it. The bene-
volent old soldier, and the infant wrapped in his sheepskin, would have af-
forded an odd group to uninterested spectators. This must have happened
about my third year (1774), for Sir George MºDougal and my grandfather
both died shortly after that period.”
We will glance next into the ‘Liddesdale Raids.' Scott has
grown-up to be a brisk-hearted jovial young man and Advocate :
in vacation-time he makes excursions to the Highlands, to the
Border Cheviots and Northumberland; rides free and far, on his
stout galloway, through bog and brake, over the dim moory De-
batable Land,-over Flodden and other fields and places, where,
though he yet knew it not, his work lay. No land, however dim
and moory, but either has had or will have its poet, and so become
not unknown in song. Liddesdale, which was once as prosaic as
most dales, having now attained illustration, let us glance thither-
ward : Liddesdale too is on this ancient Earth of ours, under this
eternal Sky; and gives and takes, in the most incalculable man-
ner, with the Universe at large Scott's experiences there are
rather of the rustic Arcadian sort; the element of whisky not
wanting. We should premise that here and there a feature has,
perhaps, been aggravated for effect's sake:
© §During seven successive years,' writes Mr. Lockhart (for the Autobio-
! Vol. i. pp. 15-17.
;
:
&
..
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 153
graphy has long since left us), ‘Scott made a raid, as he called it, into
Liddesdale with Mr. Shortreed, sheriff-substitute of Roxburgh, for his
guide; exploring every rivulet to its source, and every ruined peel from
foundation to battlement. At this time no wheeled carriage had ever been
seen in the district;-the first, indeed, was a gig, driven by Scott himself
for a part of his way, when on the last of these seven excursions. There
was no inn nor public-house of any kind in the whole valley; the travellers
passed from the shepherd's hut to the minister's manse, and again from
the cheerful hospitality of the manse to the rough and jolly welcome of the
homestead; gathering, wherever they went, songs and tunes, and occasion-
ally more tangible relics of antiquity, even such a “rowth of auld knick-
nackets” as Burns ascribes to Captain Grose. To these rambles Scott owed
much of the materials of his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border; and not
less of that intimate acquaintance with the living manners of these unso-
phisticated regions, which constitutes the chief charm of one of the most
charming of his prose works. But how soon he had any definite object
before him in his researches, seems very doubtful. “He was makin' him-
sell a’ the time,” said Mr. Shortreed; “but he didna ken maybe what he
was about till years had passed: at first he thought o' little, I daresay, but
the queerness and the fun.”
* “In those days,” says the Memorandum before me, “advocates were
not so plenty—at least about Liddesdale;” and the worthy Sheriff substi-
tute goes on to describe the sort of bustle, not unmixed with alarm, pro-
duced at the first farm-house they visited (Willie Elliot's at Millburnholm),
when the honest man was informed of the quality of one of his guests.
When they dismounted, accordingly, he received Mr. Scott with great cere-
mony, and insisted upon himself leading his horse to the stable. Shortreed
accompanied Willie, however; and the latter, after taking a deliberate peep
at Scott, “out-by the edge of the door-cheek,” whispered, “Weel, Robin, I
say, de'il hae me if I's be a bit feared for him now ; he's just a chield like
ourselves, I think.” Half-a-dozen dogs of all degrees had already gathered
round “the advocate,” and his way of returning their compliments had set
Willie Elliot at once at his ease.
“According to Mr. Shortreed, this good man of Millburnholm was the
great original of Dandie Dinmont.' * * * * They dined at Millburn-
holm; and, after having lingered over Willie Elliot's punch-bowl, until, in
Mr. Shortreed's phrase, they were “half-glowrin,” mounted their steeds
again, and proceeded to Dr. Elliot's at Cleughhead, where (“for,” says my
Memorandum, “folk werena very nice in those days”) the two travellers
slept in one and the same bed,—as, indeed, seems to have been the case
with them throughout most of their excursions ºn this primitive district.
Dr. Elliot (a clergyman) had already a large Ms. collection of the ballads
Scott was in quest of.' * * * * Next morning they seem to have ridden
a long way for the express purpose of visiting one “auld. Thomas o' Tuz-
Zilehope,” another Elliot, I suppose, who was celebrated for his skill on the
Border pipe, and in particular for being in possession of the real lilt of
Dick o' the Cow. Before starting, that is, at six o'clock, the ballad-hunters
had, “just to lay the stomach, a devilled duck or twae, and some London
porter." Auld Thomas found them, nevertheless, well disposed for “break-
fast” on their arrival at Tuzzilehope; and this being over, he delighted
them with one of the most hideous and unearthly of all specimens of “rid-
ing music,” and, moreover, with considerable libations of whisky-punch,
manufactured in a certain wooden vessel, resembling a very small milkpail,
* Loud tune: German, lallen.
154 MISCELLANIES.
which he called “Wisdom,” because it “made” only a few spoonsful of
spirits, though he had the art of replenishing it so adroitly, that it had
been celebrated for fifty years as more fatal to sobriety than any bowl in
the parish. Having done due honour to “Wisdom,” they again mounted,
and proceeded over moss and moor to some other equally hospitable master
of the pipe. “Ah me,” says Shortreed, “sic an endless fund o' humour
and drollery as he then had wi' him Never ten yards but we were either
laughing or roaring and singing. Wherever we stopped, how brawlie he
suited himsell to everybody! He aye did as the lave did; never made
himsell the great man, or took ony airs in the company. I've seen him in
a’ moods in these jaunts, grave and gay, daft and serious, sober and drunk
—(this, however, even in our wildest rambles, was rare)—but, drunk or
sober, he was aye the gentleman. He lookit excessively heavy and stupid
when he was fou, but he was never out o' gude-humour.””
These are questionable doings, questionably narrated; but what
shall we say of the following, wherein the element of whisky plays
an extremely prominent part? We will say that it is questionable,
and not exemplary, whisky mounting clearly beyond its level; that
indeed charity hopes and conjectures, here may be some aggra-
vating of features for effect's sake I
‘On reaching, one evening, some Charlieshope or other (I forget the
name) among those wildernesses, they found a kindly reception, as usual;
but, to their agreeable surprise after some days of hard living, a measured
and orderly hospitality as respected liquor. Soon after supper, at which a
bottle of elderberry wine alone had been produced, a young student of di-
vinity, who happened to be in the house, was called upon to take the “big
ha' Bible,” in the good old fashion of “Burns's Saturday Night;" and some
progress had been already made in the service, when the good-man of the
farm, whose “tendency,” as Mr. Mitchell says, “was soporific,” scandalised
his wife and the dominie by starting suddenly from his knees, and, rubbing
his eyes, with a stentorian exclamation of “By —, here's the keg at last!”
and in tumbled, as he spoke the word, a couple of sturdy herdsmen, whom,
on hearing a day before of the advocate's approaching visit, he had des-
patched to a certain smuggler's haunt, at some considerable distance, in
quest of a supply of run brandy from the Solway Frith. The pious “exer-
cise” of the household was hopelessly interrupted. With a thousand apolo-
gies for his hitherto shabby entertainment, this jolly Elliot, or Armstrong,
had the welcome keg mounted on the table without a moment's delay, and
genile and simple, not forgetting the dominie, continued carousing about it
until daylight streamed-in upon the party. Sir Walter Scott seldom failed,
when I saw him in company with his Liddesdale companion, to mimic with
infinite humour the sudden outburst of his old host on hearing the clatter
of horses' feet, which he knew to indicate the arrival of the keg—the con-
sternation of the dame—and the rueful despair with which the young
clergyman closed the book.”
From which Liddesdale raids, which we here, like the young
clergyman, close not without a certain rueful despair, let the reader
draw what mourishment he can. They evince satisfactorily, though
in a rude manner, that in those days young advocates, and Scott
* Vol. i. pp. 195-199. *
*,
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 155
like the rest of them, were alive and alert, -whisky sometimes
preponderating. But let us now fancy that the jovial young Ad-
vocate has pleaded his first cause; has served in yeomanry drills;
been wedded, been promoted Sheriff, without romance in either
case; dabbling a little the while, under guidance of Monk Lewis,
in translations from the German, in translation of Goethe's Götz
with the Iron Hand;—and we have arrived at the threshold of the
Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, and the opening of a new century.
Hitherto, therefore, there has been made out, by Nature and
Circumstance working together, nothing unusually remarkable, yet
still something very valuable; a stout effectual man of thirty, full
of broad sagacity and good humour, with faculties in him fit for
any burden of business, hospitality and duty, legal or civic :—with
what other faculties in him no one could yet say. As indeed, who,
after lifelong inspection, can say what is in any man? The uttered
part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered,
unconscious part a small unknown proportion; he himself never
knows it, much less do others. Give him room, give him impulse ;
he reaches down to the Infinite with that so straitly-imprisoned
soul of his ; and can do miracles if need be It is one of the com-
fortablest truths that great men abound, though in the unknown
state. Nay, as above hinted, our greatest, being also by nature
our quietest, are perhaps those that remain unknown Philoso-
pher Fiehte took comfort in this belief, when from all pulpits and
editorial desks, and publications periodical and stationary, he could
hear nothing but the infinite chattering and twittering of common-
place become ambitious; and in the infinite stir of motion no-
whither, and of din which should have been silence, all seemed
churned into one tempestuous yesty froth, and the stern Fichte
almost desired “taxes on knowledge’ to allay it a little;—he com-
forted himself, we say, by the unshaken belief that Thought did
still exist in Germany; that thinking men, each in his own corner,
were verily doing their work, though in a silent latent manner."
Walter Scott, as a latent Walter, had never amused all men for a
score of years in the course of centuries and eternities, or gained
and lost several hundred thousand pounds sterling by Literature;
but he might have been a happy and by no means a useless, -nay,
who knows at bottom whether not a still usefuller Walter | How-
ever, that was not his fortune. The Genius of rather a singular
age,_an age at once destitute of faith and terrified at scepticism,
with little knowledge of its whereabout, with many sorrows to bear
or front, and on the whole with a life to lead in these new circum-
stances,—had said to himself: What man shall be the temporary
* Fichte, Ueber das Wesen des Gelehrten. *
dº
156 MISCELLANIES.
comforter, or were it but the spiritual comfit-maker, of this my
poor singular age, to solace its dead tedium and manifold sorrows
a little? So had the Genius said, looking over all the world, What
man? and found him walking the dusty Outer Parliament-house
of Edinburgh, with his advocate-gown on his back; and exclaimed,
That is he l
The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border proved to be a well, from
which flowed one of the broadest rivers. Metrical Romances
(which in due time pass into Prose Romances); the old life of
men resuscitated for us: it is a mighty word | Not as dead tradi-
tion, but as a palpable presence, the past stood before us. There
they were, the rugged old fighting men; in their doughty simpli-
city and strength, with their heartiness, their healthiness, their
stout self-help, in their iron basnets, leather jerkins, jack-boots, in
their quaintness of manner and costume; there as they looked and
lived : it was like a new discovered continent in Literature; for
the new century, a bright El Dorado, -or else some fat beatific
land of Cockaigne, and Paradise of Donothings. To the opening
Itineteenth century, in its languor and paralysis, nothing could
have been welcomer. Most unexpected, most refreshing and ex-
hilarating; behold our new El Dorado; our fat beatific Lubber-
land, where one can enjoy and do nothing! It was the time for
such a new Literature ; and this Walter Scott was the man for it.
The Lays, the Marmions, the Ladys and Lords of Lake and Isles,
followed in quick succession, with ever-widening profit and praise.
How many thousands of guineas were paid-down for each new Lay;
how many thousands of copies (fifty and more sometimes) were
printed off, then and subsequently; what complimenting, review-
ing, renown and apotheosis there was: all is recorded in these
Seven Volumes, which will be valuable in literary statistics. It is
a history, brilliant, remarkable; the outlines of which are known to
all. The reader shall recall it, or conceive it. No blaze in his fancy
is likely to mount higher than the reality did,
At this middle period of his life, therefore, Scott, enriched
with copyrights, with new official incomes and promotions, rich
in money, rich in repute, presents himself as a man in the full
career of success. “Health, wealth, and wit to guide them' (as his
vernacular Proverb says), all these three are his. The field is
open for him, and victory there; his own faculty, his own self, un-
shackled, victoriously unfolds itself—the highest blessedness that
can befall a man. Wide circle of friends, personal loving admirers;
warmth of domestic joys, vouchsafed to all that can true-heartedly
nestle-down among them; light of radiance and renown given only
to a few: who would not call Scott happy? But the happiest cir-
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 157
cumstance of all is, as we said above, that Scott had in himself a
right healthy soul, rendering him little dependent on outward
circumstances. Things showed themselves to him not in distor-
tion or borrowed light or gloom, but as they were. Endeavour lay
in him and endurance, in due measure; and clear vision of what
was to be endeavoured after. Were one to preach a Sermon on
Health, as really were worth doing, Scott ought to be the text.
Theories are demonstrably true in the way of logic; and then in
the way of practice they prove true or else not true: but here is
the grand experiment, Do they turn-out well? What boots it that
a man's creed is the wisest, that his system of principles is the
superfinest, if, when set to work, the life of him does nothing but
jar, and fret itself into holes & They are untrue in that, were it in
nothing else, these principles of his; openly convicted of untruth;
—fit only, shall we say, to be rejected as counterfeits, and flung to
the dogs? We say not that; but we do say, that ill-health, of body
or of mind, is defeat, is battle (in a good or in a bad cause) with bad
success; that health alone is victory. Let all men, if they can
manage it, contrive to be healthy | He who in what cause soever
sinks into pain and disease, let him take thought of it; let him
know well that it is not good he has arrived at yet, but surely evil,
—may, or may not be, on the way towards good.
Scott's healthiness showed itself decisively in all things, and
nowhere more decisively than in this : the way in which he took
his fame; the estimate he from the first formed of fame. Money
will buy money's worth; but the thing men call fame, what is it?
A gaudy emblazonry, not good for much,-except, indeed, as it too
may turn to money. To Scott it was a profitable pleasing super-
fluity, no necessary of life. Not necessary, now or ever! Seem-
ingly without much effort, but taught by Nature, and the instinct
which instructs the sound heart what is good for it and what is
not, he felt that he could always do without this same emblazonry
of reputation; that he ought to put no trust in it; but be ready at
any time to see it pass away from him, and to hold on his way as
before. It is incalculable, as we conjecture, what evil he escaped
in this manner; what perversions, irritations, mean agonies with-
out a name, he lived wholly apart from, knew nothing of Hap-
pily before fame arrived, he had reached the mature age at which
all this was easier to him. What a strange Nemesis lurks in the
felicities of men! In thy mouth it shall be sweet as honey, in thy
belly it shall be bitter as gall! Some weakly-organised individual,
we will say at the age of five-and-twenty, whose main or whole
talent rests on some prurient susceptivity, and nothing under it
but shallowness and vacuum, is clutched hold of by the general
158 MISCELLANIES.
imagination, is whirled aloft to the giddy height; and taught to
believe the divine-seeming message that he is a great man: such
individual seems the luckiest of men: and, alas, is he not the un-
luckiest? Swallow not the Circe-draught, O weakly-organised indi-
vidual; it is fell poison; it will dry-up the fountains of thy whole
existence, and all will grow withered and parched; thou shalt be
wretched under the sun Is there, for example, a sadder book
than that Life of Byron, by Moore? To omit mere prurient suscep-
tivities that rest on vacuum, look at poor Byron, who really had
much substance in him. Sitting there in his self-exile, with a
proud heart striving to persuade itself that it despises the entire
created Universe; and far off, in foggy Babylon, let any pitifullest
whipster draw pen on him, your proud Byron writhes in torture, -
as if the pitiful whipster were a magician, or his pen a galvamic wire
struck into the Byron's spinal marrow ! Lamentable, despicable,
—one had rather be a kitten and cry mew O son of Adam, great
or little, according as thou art lovable, those thou livest with will
love thee. Those thou livest not with, is it of moment that they
have the alphabetic letters of thy name engraved on their memory,
with some signpost likeness of thee (as like as I to Hercules) ap-
pended to them? It is not of moment; in sober truth, not of any
moment at all ! And yet, behold, there is no soul now whom thou
canst love freely,–from one soul only art thou always sure of re-
verence enough; in presence of no soul is it rightly well with thee!
How is thy world become desert; and thou, for the sake of a little
babblement of tongues, art poor, bankrupt, insolvent not in purse,
but in heart and mind. ‘The Golden Calf of self-love,’ says Jean
Paul, ‘has grown into a burning Phalaris' Bull, to consume its
owner and worshipper.' Ambition, the desire of shining and out-
shining, was the beginning of Sin in this world. The man of let-
ters who founds upon his fame, does he not thereby alone declare
himself a follower of Lucifer (named Satan, the Enemy), and mem-
ber of the Satanic school 2
It was in this poetic period that Scott formed his connexion
with the Ballantynes; and embarked, though under cover, largely
in trade. To those who regard him in the heroic light, and will
have Vates to signify Prophet as well as Poet, this portion of his
biography seems somewhat incongruous. Viewed as it stood in
the reality, as he was and as it was, the enterprise, since it proved
so unfortunate, may be called lamentable, but cannot be called
unnatural. The practical Scott, looking towards practical issues
in all things, could not but find hard cash one of the most practi-
cal. If by any means cash could be honestly produced, were it by
writing poems, were it by printing them, why not? Great things
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 159
might be done ultimately; great difficulties were at once got rid
of-manifold higglings of booksellers, and contradictions of sin-
ners hereby fell away. A printing and bookselling speculation
was not so alien for a maker of books. Voltaire, who indeed got
no copyrights, made much money by the war-commissariat, in his
time; we believe, by the victualling branch of it. St. George him-
self, they say, was a dealer in bacon in Cappadocia. A thrifty
man will help himself towards his object by such steps as lead to
it. Station in society, solid power over the good things of this
world, was Scott's avowed object; towards which the precept of
precepts is that of Iago, Put money in thy purse.
Here, indeed, it is to be remarked, that perhaps no literary
man of any generation has less value than Scott for the immaterial
part of his mission in any sense: not only for the fantasy called
fame, with the fantastic miseries attendant thereon; but also for
the spiritual purport of his work, whether it tended hitherward or
thitherward, or had any tendency whatever; and indeed for all
purports and results of his working, except such, we may say, as
offered themselves to the eye, and could, in one sense or the other,
be handled, looked at and buttoned into the breeches-pocket.
Somewhat too little of a fantast, this Wates of ours But so it
was: in this nineteenth century, our highest literary man, who
immeasurably beyond all others commanded the world's ear, had,
as it were, no message whatever to deliver to the world; wished
not the world to elevate itself, to amend itself, to do this or to do
that, except simply pay him for the books he kept writing. Very
remarkable ; fittest, perhaps, for an age fallen languid, destitute
of faith and terrified at scepticism 2 Or, perhaps, for quite another
sort of age, an age all in peaceable triumphant motion ? Be this
as it may, Surely since Shakspeare's time there has been no great
speaker so unconscious of an aim in speaking as Walter Scott.
Equally unconscious these two utterances; equally the sincere
complete products of the minds they came from ; and now if they
were equally deep & Or, if the one was living fire, and the other
was futile phosphorescence and mere resinous firework? It will
depend on the relative worth of the minds; for both were equally
spontaneous, both equally expressed themselves unencumbered
by an ulterior aim. Beyond drawing audiences to the Globe The-
atre, Shakspeare contemplated no result in those plays of his. Yet
they have had results 1 Utter with free heart what thy own damon
gives thee: if fire from heaven, it shall be well; if resinous fire-
work, it shall be—as well as it could be, or better than otherwise !
The candid judge will, in general, require that a speaker, in so
extremely serious a Universe as this of ours, have something to
160 . MISCELLANIES,
speak about. In the heart of the speaker there ought to be some
kind of gospel-tidings, burning till it be uttered; otherwise it were
better for him that he altogether held his peace. A gospel some-
what more decisive than this of Scott's, except to an age alto-
gether languid, without either scepticism or faith ! These things
the candid judge will demand of literary men; yet withal will re-
cognise the great worth there is in Scott's honesty if in nothing
more, in his being the thing he was with such entire good faith.
Here is a something, not a nothing. If no skyborn messenger,
heaven looking through his eyes; then neither is it a chimera
with his systems, crotchets, cants, fanaticisms, and “last infirmity
of noble minds,'—full of misery, unrest and ill-will; but a substan-
tial, peaceable, terrestrial man. Far as the Earth is under the
Heaven does Scott stand below the former sort of character; but
high as the cheerful flowery Earth is above waste Tartarus does
he stand above the latter. Let him live in his own fashion, and
do honour to him in that.
It were late in the day to write criticisms on those Metrical
Romances: at the same time, we may remark, the great popularity
they had seems natural enough. In the first place, there was the
indisputable impress of worth, of genuine human force, in them.
This, which lies in some degree, or is thought to lie, at the bottom
of all popularity, did to an unusual degree disclose itself in these
rhymed romances of Scott's. Pictures were actually painted and
presented ; human emotions conceived and sympathised with.
Considering what wretched Della-Cruscan and other vamping-up
of old worn-out tatters was the staple article then, it may be granted
that Scott's excellence was superior and supreme. When a Hay-
ley was the main singer, a Scott might well be hailed with warm
welcome. Consider whether the Loves of the Plants, and even the
Loves of the Triangles, could be worth the loves and hates of men
and women Scott was as preferable to what he displaced, as the
substance is to wearisomely repeated shadow of a substance. But,
in the second place, we may say that the kind of worth which
Scott manifested was fitted especially for the then temper of men.
We have called it an age fallen into spiritual languor, destitute of
belief, yet terrified at scepticism; reduced to live a stinted half-
life, under strange new circumstances. Now vigorous whole-life,
this was what of all things these delineations offered. The reader
was carried back to rough strong times, wherein those maladies
of ours had not yet arisen. Brawny fighters, all cased in buff and
iron, their hearts too sheathed in oak and triple brass, caprioled
their huge war-horses, shook their death-doing spears; and went
forth in the most determined manner, nothing doubting. The
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 161
reader sighed, yet not without a reflex solacement: “Oh, that I
too had lived in those times, had never known these logic-cob-
webs, this doubt, this sickliness; and been and felt myself alive
among men alive ' " Add lastly, that in this new-found poetic
world there was no call for effort on the reader's part; what excel-
lence they had, exhibited itself at a glance. It was for the reader,
not the El Dorado only, but a beatific land of Cockaigne and Para-
dise of Donothings | The reader, what the vast majority of readers
so long to do, was allowed to lie down at his ease, and be minis-
tered to. What the Turkish bathkeeper is said to aim at with his
frictions, and shampooings, and fomentings, more or less effectu-
ally, that the patient in total idleness may have the delights of
activity,+was here to a considerable extent realised. The lan-
guid imagination fell back into its rest; an artist was there who
could supply it with high-painted scenes, with sequences of stir-
ring action, and whisper to it, Be at ease, and let thy tepid ele-
ment be comfortable to thee. ‘The rude man,’ says a critic, “re-
“quires only to see something going on. The man of more refine-
‘ment must be made to feel. The man of complete refinement
‘must be made to reflect.'
We named the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border the fountain
from which flowed this great river of Metrical Romances; but
according to some they can be traced to a still higher, obscurer
spring; to Goethe's Götz von Berlichingen with the Iron Hand; of
which, as we have seen, Scott in his earlier days executed a trans-
lation. Dated a good many years ago, the following words in a
criticism on Goethe are found written; which probably are still
new to most readers of this Review:
‘The works just mentioned, Götz and Werter, though noble specimens
of youthful talent, are still not so much distinguished by their intrinsic
merits as by their splendid fortune. It would be difficult to name two
books which have exercised a deeper influence on the subsequent literature
of Europe than these two performances of a young author; his first-fruits,
the produce of his twenty-fourth year. Werter appeared to seize the hearts
of men in all quarters of the world, and to utter for them the word which
they had long been waiting to hear. As usually happens too, this same
word, once uttered, was soon abundantly repeated; spoken in all dialects,
and chanted through all notes of the gamut, till the sound of it had grown
a weariness rather than a pleasure. Sceptical sentimentality, view-hunting,
love, friendship, suicide and desperation, became the staple of literary ware;
and though the epidemic, after a long course of years, subsided in Ger-
many, it reappeared with various modifications in other countries, and
everywhere abundant traces of its good and bad effects are still to be dis-
cerned. The fortune of Berlichingen with the Iron Hand, though less
sudden, was by no means less exalted. In his own country, Götz, though
he now stands solitary and childless, became the parent of an innumerable
progeny of chivalry plays, feudal delineations, and poetico-antiquarian per-
WOL. IV. M
162 MISCELLANIES.
formances; which, though long ago deceased, made noise enough in their
day and generation: and with ourselves his influence has been perhaps
still more remarkable. Sir Walter Scott's first literary enterprise was a
translation of Götz von Berlichingen : and, if genius could be communi-
cated like instruction, we might call this work of Goethe's the prime cause
of Marmion and the Lady of the Lake, with all that has followed from the
same creative hand. Truly, a grain of seed that has lighted in the right
soil! For if not firmer and fairer, it has grown to be taller and broader
than any other tree; and all the nations of the earth are still yearly gather-
ing of its fruit.'
How far Götz von Berlichingen actually affected Scott's literary
destination, and whether without it the rhymed romances, and
then the prose romances of the Author of Waverley, would not
have followed as they did, must remain a very obscure question;
obscure, and not important. Of the fact, however, there is no
doubt, that these two tendencies, which may be named Götzism
and Werterism, of the former of which Scott was representative
with us, have made, and are still in some quarters making the
tour of all Europe. In Germany too there was this affectionate
half-regretful looking-back into the Past; Germany had its buff.
belted watch-tower period in literature, and had even got done
with it, before Scott began. Then as to Werterism, had not we
English our Byron and his genus 2 No form of Werterism in any
other country had half the potency; as our Scott carried Chivalry
Literature to the ends of the world, so did our Byron Werterism.
France, busy with its Revolution and Napoleon, had little leisure
at the moment for Götzism or Werterism ; but it has had them
both since, in a shape of its own : witness the whole ‘Literature
of Desperation' in our own days; the beggarliest form of Werter-
ism yet seen, probably its expiring final form : witness also, at the
other extremity of the scale, a noble-gifted Chateaubriand, Götz
and Werter both in one.—Curious : how all Europe is but like a
set of parishes of the same county; participant of the self-same
influences, ever since the Crusades, and earlier;-and these glo-
rious wars of ours are but like parish-brawls, which begin in mu-
tual ignorance, intoxication and boastful speech ; which end in
broken windows, damage, waste and bloody noses; and which one
hopes the general good sense is now in the way towards putting
down, in some measure
But leaving this to be as it can, what it concerned us here to
remark, was that British Werterism, in the shape of those Byron
Poems, so potent and poignant, produced on the languid appetite
of men a mighty effect. This too was a ‘class of feelings deeply
“important to modern minds; feelings which arise from passion
‘ incapable of being converted into action, which belong to an age as
SIR. WALTER SCOTT. 163
“indolent, cultivated and unbelieving as our own º' The ‘languid
age without either faith or scepticism' turned towards Byronism
with an interest altogether peculiar: here, if no cure for its miser-
able paralysis and languor, was at least an indignant statement
of the misery; an indignant Ernulphus' curse read over it, which
all men felt to be something. Half-regretful lookings into the Past
gave place, in many quarters, to Ernulphus' cursings of the Pre-
sent. Scott was among the first to perceive that the day of Metri-
cal Chivalry Romances was declining. He had held the sovereignty
for some half-score of years, a comparatively long lease of it; and
now the time seemed come for dethronement, for abdication: an
unpleasant business; which however he held himself ready, as a
brave man will, to transact with composure and in silence. After
all, Poetry was not his staff of life; Poetry had already yielded him
much money; this at least it would not take back from him. Busy
always with editing, with compiling, with multiplex official com-
mercial business, and solid interests, he beheld the coming change
with unmoved eye.
Resignation he was prepared to exhibit in this matter;—and
now behold there proved to be no need of resignation. Let the
Metrical Romance become a Prose one; shake off its rhyme-fetters,
and try a wider sweep ! In the spring of 1814 appeared Waverley;
an event memorable in the annals of British Literature ; in the
annals of British Bookselling thrice and four times memorable.
Byron sang, but Scott narrated; and when the song had sung itself
out through all variations onwards to the Don Juan one, Scott was
still found narrating, and carrying the whole world along with him.
All bygone popularity of chivalry-lays was swallowed up in a far
greater. What ‘series' followed out of Waverley, and how and with
what result, is known to all men; was witnessed and watched with
a kind of rapt astonishment by all. Hardly any literary reputa-
tion ever rose so high in our Island; no reputation at all ever
spread so wide. Walter Scott became Sir Walter Scott, Baronet, of
Abbotsford; on whom Fortune seemed to pour her whole cornu-
copia of wealth, honour and worldly good; the favourite of Princes
and of Peasants, and all intermediate men. His “Waverley series,'
swift-following one on the other apparently without end, was the
universal reading; looked for like an annual harvest, by all ranks,
in all European countries. A curious circumstance superadded
itself, that the author though known was unknown. From the
first, most people suspected, and soon after the first, few intelli-
gent persons much doubted, that the Author of Waverley was
Walter Scott. Yet a certain mystery was still kept up ; rather
piquant to the public; doubtless very pleasant to the author, who
164 MISCELLANIES.
saw it all; who probably had not to listen, as other hapless indivi-
duals often had, to this or the other long-drawn “clear proof at
last,’ that the author was not Walter Scott, but a certain astonish-
ing Mr. So-and-so;—one of the standing miseries of human life in
that time. But for the privileged Author, it was like a king travel-
ling incognito. All men know that he is a high king, chivalrous
Gustaf or Kaiser Joseph ; but he mingles in their meetings without
cumber of etiquette or lonesome ceremony, as Chevalier du Nord,
or Count of Lorraine : he has none of the weariness of royalty, and
yet all the praise, and the satisfaction of hearing it with his own
ears. In a word, the Waverley Novels circulated and reigned tri-
umphant; to the general imagination the “Author of Waverley' was
like some living mythological personage, and ranked among the
chief wonders of the world.
How a man lived and demeaned himself in such unwonted cir-
cumstances, is worth seeing. We would gladly quote from Scott's
correspondence of this period; but that does not much illustrate
the matter. His letters, as above stated, are never without in-
terest, yet also seldom or never very interesting. They are full of
cheerfulness, of wit and ingenuity; but they do not treat of aught
intimate; without impeaching their sincerity, what is called sin-
cerity, one may say they do not, in any case whatever, proceed
from the innermost parts of the mind. Conventional forms, due
consideration of your own and your correspondent's pretensions
and vanities, are at no moment left out of view. The epistolary
stream runs on, lucid, free, glad-flowing; but always, as it were,
parallel to the real substance of the matter, never coincident with
it. One feels it hollowish under foot. Letters they are of a most
humane man of the world, even exemplary in that kind; but with
the man of the world always visible in them; – as indeed it was
little in Scott's way to speak, perhaps even with himself, in any
other fashion. We select rather some glimpses of him from Mr.
Lockhart's record. The first is of dining with Royalty or Prince-
Regentship itself; an almost official matter:
‘On hearing from Mr. Croker (then Secretary to the Admiralty) that
Scott was to be in town by the middle of March (1815), the Prince said,
“Let me know when he comes, and I’ll get-up a Snug little dinner that will
suit him;” and, after he had been presented and graciously received at the
levee, he was invited to dinner accordingly, through his excellent friend Mr.
Adam (now Lord Chief Commissioner of the Jury Court in Scotland), who
at that time held a confidential office in the royal household. The Regent
had consulted with Mr. Adam, also, as to the composition of the party.
“Let us have,” said he, “just a few friends of his own, and the more Scotch
the better;" and both the Commissioner and Mr. Croker assure me that the
party was the most interesting and agreeable one in their recollection. It
comprised, I believe, the Duke of York—the Duke of Gordon (then Mar-
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 165
quess of Huntly)—the Marquess of Hertford (then Lord Yarmouth)—the
Earl of Fife — and Scott's early friend, Lord Melville. “The Prince and
Scott,” says Mr. Croker, “were the two most brilliant story-tellers, in their
several ways, that I have ever happened to meet; they were both aware of
their forte, and both exerted themselves that evening with delightful effect.
On going home, Ireally could not decide which of them had shone the most.
The Regent was enchanted with Scott, as Scott with him; and on all his
subsequent visits to London, he was a frequent guest at the royal table.”
The Lord Chief Commissioner remembers that the Prince was particularly
delighted with the poet's anecdotes of the old Scotch judges and lawyers,
which his Royal Highness sometimes capped by ludicrous traits of certain
ermined sages of his own acquaintance. Scott told, among others, a story,
which he was fond of telling, of his old friend the Lord Justice-Clerk Brax-
field; and the commentary of his Royal Highness on hearing it amused
Scott, who often mentioned it afterwards. The anecdote is this: Braxfield,
whenever he went on a particular circuit, was in the habit of visiting a gen-
tleman of good fortune in the neighbourhood of one of the assize towns,
and staying at least one might, which, being both of them ardent chess-
players, they usually concluded with their favourite game. One Spring cir-
cuit the battle was not decided at daybreak; so the Justice-Clerk said, “Weel,
Donald, I must e'en come back this gate, and let the game lie ower for the
present:” and back he came in October, but not to his old friend's hospi-
table house ; for that gentleman had in the interim been apprehended on
a capital charge (of forgery), and his name stood on the Porteous Roll, or
list of those who were about to be tried under his former guest's auspices.
The laird was indicted and tried accordingly, and the jury returned a ver-
dict of guilty. Braxfield forthwith put on his cocked hat (which answers
to the black cap in England), and pronounced the sentence of the law in
the usual terms—“To be hanged by the neck until you be dead; and may
the Lord have mercy upon your unhappy soul!” Having concluded this
awful formula in his most sonorous cadence, Braxfield, dismounting his
formidable beaver, gave a familiar nod to his unfortunate acquaintance, and
said to him in a sort of chuckling whisper—“And now, Donald, my man, I
think I’ve checkmated you for ance.” The Regent laughed heartily at this
specimen of Macqueen's brutal humour; and “I’faith, Walter,” said he,
“this old big-wig seems to have taken things as coolly as my tyrannical
self. Don't you remember Tom Moore's description of me at breakfast—
“‘The table spread with tea and toast,
Death-warrants and the Morning Post?”
‘Towards midnight, the Prince called for “a bumper, with all the hon-
ours, to the Author of Waverley;” and looked significantly, as he was charg—
ing his own glass, to Scott. Scott seemed somewhat puzzled for a moment,
but instantly recovering himself, and filling his glass to the brim, said,
“Your Royal Highness looks as if you thought I had some claim to the
honours of this toast. I have no such pretensions; but shall take good
care that the real Simon Pure hears of the high compliment that has now
been paid him.” He then drank-off his claret; and joined with a stento-
rian voice in the cheering, which the Prince himself timed. But before
the company could resume their seats, his Royal Highness, “Another of
the same, if you please, to the Author of Marmion,-and now, Walter, my
man, I have checkmated you for ance.” The second bumper was followed
by cheers still more prolonged: and Scott then rose, and returned thanks
in a short address, which struck the Lord Chief Commissioner as “alike
166 MISCE LLANIES.
grave and graceful.” This story has been circulated in a very perverted
shape.' * * * * Before he left town he again dined at Carlton House, when
the party was a still smaller one than before, and the merriment if possible
still more free. That nothing might be wanting, the Prince sang several
capital Songs.”
Or take, at a very great interval in many senses, this glimpse
of another dinner, altogether unofficially and much better de-
scribed. It is James Ballantyne the printer and publisher's din-
ner, in Saint John Street, Canongate, Edinburgh, on the birtheve
of a Waverley Novel:
“The feast was, to use one of James's own favourite epithets, gorgeous;
an aldermanic display of turtle and venison, with the suitable accompani-
ments of iced punch, potent ale, and generous Madeira. When the cloth
was drawn, the burly praeses arose, with all he could muster of the port of
John Kemble, and spouted with a sonorous voice the formula of Macbeth,
<< Fill full
I drink to the general joy of the whole table !”
This was followed by “the King, God bless him "and second came—“Gen-
tlemen, there is another toast which never has been nor shall be omitted
in this house of mine: I give you the health of Mr. Walter Scott, with
three times three " All honour having been done to this health, and Scott
having briefly thanked the company, with some expressions of warm affec-
tion to their host, Mrs. Ballantyne retired;—the bottles passed round twice
or thrice in the usual way; and then James rose once more, every vein on
his brow distended; his eyes solemnly fixed on vacancy, to propose, not as
before in his stentorian key, but with “’bated breath,” in the sort of whisper
by which a stage-conspirator thrills the gallery, “Gentlemen, a bumper to
the immortal Author of Waverley !”—The uproar of cheering, in which
Scott made a fashion of joining, was succeeded by deep silence; and then
Ballantyne proceeded—
“In his Lord-Burleigh look, serene and serious,
A something of imposing and mysterious”—
to lament the obscurity, in which his illustrious but too modest corre-
spondent still chose to conceal himself from the plaudits of the world; to
thank the company for the manner in which the nominis umbra had been
received; and to assure them that the Author of Waverley would, when
informed of the circumstance, feel highly delighted — “the proudest hour
of his life,” &c. &c. The cool, demure fun of Scott's features during all
this mummery was perfect; and Erskine's attempt at a gay nonchalance
was still more ludicrously meritorious. Aldiborontiphoscophornio, how-
ever, bursting as he was, knew too well to allow the new Novel to be made
the subject of discussion. Its name was announced, and success to it
crowned another cup; but after that, no more of Jedediah. To cut the
thread, he rolled out unbidden some one of his many theatrical songs, in
a style that would have done no dishonour to almost any orchestra—The
Maid of Lodi, or perhaps The Bay of Biscay, O !—or The sweet little
cherub that sits up aloft. Other toasts followed, interspersed with ditties
from other performers; old George Thomson, the friend of Burns, was
ready, for one, with The Moorland Wedding, or Willie brew'd a peck o'
! Vol. iii. pp. 340-343.
SLR WALTER SCOTT. 167
naut;—and so it went on, until Scott and Erskine, with any clerical or
very staid personage that had chanced to be admitted, saw fit to withdraw.
Then the scene was changed. The claret and olives made way for broiled
bones and a mighty bowl of punch; and when a few glasses of the hot
beverage had restored his powers, James opened ore rotundo on the merits
of the forthcoming Romance. “One chapter—one chapter only "was the
cry. After “Nay, by’r Lady, may !” and a few more coy shifts, the proof.
sheets were at length produced, and James, with many a prefatory hem,
read aloud what he considered as the most striking dialogue they contained.
“The first I heard so read was the interview between Jeanie Deans, the
Duke of Argyle and Queen Caroline, in Richmond Park; and, notwith-
standing some spice of the pompous tricks to which he was addicted, I must
say he did the inimitable scene great justice. At all events, the effect it
produced was deep and memorable ; and no wonder that the exulting typo-
grapher's one bumper more to Jedediah Cleishbotham preceded his parting-
stave, which was uniformly The Last Words of Marmion, executed certainly
with no contemptible rivalry of Braham.”
Over at Abbotsford things wear a still more prosperous aspect.
Scott is building there, by the pleasant banks of the Tweed; he
has bought and is buying land there; fast as the new gold comes
in for a new Waverley Novel, or even faster, it changes itself into
moory acres, into stone, and hewn or planted wood:
‘About the middle of February' (1820), says Mr. Lockhart, “it having
been ere that time arranged that I should marry his eldest daughter in the
course of the spring, I accompanied him and part of his family on one of
those flying visits to Abbotsford, with which he often indulged himself on
a Saturday during term. Upon such occasions, Scott appeared at the usual
hour in court, but wearing, instead of the official suit of black, his country
morning-dress, green jacket and so forth, under the clerk's gown.”—“At
moon, when the Court broke up, Peter Mathieson was sure to be in attend-
ance in the Parliament Close; and, five minutes after, the gown had been
tossed off; and Scott, rubbing his hands for glee, was under weigh for
Tweedside. As we proceeded,’ &c.
“Next morning there appeared at breakfast John Ballantyne, who had
at this time a shooting or hunting-box a few miles off, in the vale of the
Leader, and with him Mr. Constable, his guest; and it being a fine clear
day, as soon as Scott had read the church-service and one of Jeremy Tay-
lor's sermons, we all Sallied out before noon on a perambulation of his
upland territories; Maida (the hound) and the rest of the favourites accom-
panying our march. At starting we were joined by the constant henchman,
Tom Purdie, -and I may save myself the trouble of any attempt to describe
his appearance, for his master has given us an inimitably true one in intro-
ducing a certain personage of his Redgauntlet: —“He was, perhaps, sixty
years old; yet his brow was not much furrowed, and his jet-black hair was
only grizzled, not whitened, by the advance of age. All his motions spoke
strength unabated; and, though rather undersized, he had very broad
shoulders, was square-made, thin-flanked, and apparently combined in his
frame, muscular strength and activity; the last somewhat impaired, per-
haps, by years, but the first remaining in full vigour. A hard and harsh
countenance; eyes far sunk under projecting eyebrows, which were grizzled
like his hair; a wide mouth, furnished from ear to ear with a range of un-
1 Vol. iv. pp. 166-168.
168 MISCELLANIES.
impaired teeth of uncommon whiteness, and a size and breadth which
might have become the jaws of an ogre, completed this delightful portrait.”
Equip this figure in Scott's cast-off green jacket, white hat and drab trou-
sers; and imagine that years of kind treatment, comfort and the honest
consequence of a confidential grieve! had softened away much of the hard-
ness and harshness originally impressed on the visage by anxious penury,
and the sinister habits of a black-fisher; — and the Tom Purdie of 1820
stands before us.
“We were all delighted to see how completely Scott had recovered his
bodily vigour, and none more so than Constable, who, as he puffed and
panted after him, up one ravine and down another, often stopped to wipe
his forehead, and remarked, that “it was not every author who should lead
him such a dance.” But Purdie's face shone with rapture as he observed
how severely the swag-bellied bookseller's activity was tasked. Scott ex-
claimed exultingly, though, perhaps, for the tenth time, “This will be a
glorious spring for our trees, Tom P'—“You may say that, Sheriff,” quoth
Tom, and then lingering a moment for Constable—“My certy,” he added,
scratching his head, “and I think it will be a grand season for our buiks
too.” But indeed Tom always talked of our buiks, as if they had been as
regular products of the soil as our aits and our birks. Having threaded
first the Hexilcleugh and then the Rhymer's Glen, we arrived at Huntly
Burn, where the hospitality of the kind Weird Sisters, as Scott called the
Miss Fergusons, reanimated our exhausted bibliopoles, and gave them cour-
age to extend their walk a little farther down the same famous brook.
Here there was a small cottage in a very sequestered situation' (named
Chiefswood), ‘by making some little additions to which Scott thought it
might be converted into a suitable summer residence for his daughter and
future son-in-law.' * * * “As we walked homeward, Scott being a little
fatigued, laid his left hand on Tom's shoulder, and leaned heavily for sup-
port, chatting to his “Sunday pony,” as he called the affectionate fellow,
just as freely as with the rest of the party; and Tom put-in his word
shrewdly and manfully, and grinned and grunted whenever the joke chanced
to be within his apprehension. It was easy to see that his heart swelled
within him from the moment the Sheriffgot his collar in his gripe.”
That Abbotsford became infested to a great degree with tourists,
wonder-hunters, and all that fatal species of people, may be sup-
posed. Solitary Ettrick saw itself populous: all paths were beaten
with the feet and hoofs of an endless miscellany of pilgrims. As
many as “sixteen parties' have arrived at Abbotsford in one day;
male and female ; peers, Socinian preachers, whatsoever was dis-
tinguished, whatsoever had love of distinction in it! Mr. Lock-
hart thinks there was no literary shrine ever so bepilgrimed, except
Ferney in Voltaire's time, who, however, was not half so accessible.
A fatal species' These are what Schiller calls ‘the flesh-flies;’
buzzing swarms of bluebottles, who never fail where any taint of
human glory or other corruptibility is in the wind. So has Nature
decreed. Scott's healthiness, bodily and mental, his massive so-
lidity of character, nowhere showed itself more decisively than in
his manner of encountering this part of his fate. That his blue-
1 Overseer; German, graf. * Vol. iv. pp. 349-353.
SIR WALTER SCOTT. - 160
bottles were blue, and of the usual tone and quality, may be judged.
Hear Captain Basil Hall (in a very compressed state):
‘We arrived in good time, and found several other guests at dinner.
The public rooms are lighted with oil-gas, in a style of extraordinary splen-
dour. The,' &c.—“Had I a hundred pens, each of which at the same time
should separately write down an anecdote, I could not hope to record one-
half of those which our host, to use Spenser's expression, “welled out
alway.”—“Entertained us all the way with an endless string of anecdotes;’
—‘came like a stream of poetry from his lips;’—‘path muddy and scarcely
passable, yet I do not remember ever to have seen any place so interesting
as the skill of this mighty magician had rendered this narrow ravine.”—“Im-
possible to touch on any theme, but straightway he has an anecdote to fit
it.”—“Thus we strolled along, borne, as it were, on the stream of song and
story.”—“In the evening we had a great feast indeed. Sir Walter asked us
if we had ever read Christabel.’—‘Interspersed with these various readings,
were some hundreds of stories, some quaint, some pathetical.”—“At break-
fast today we had, as usual, some 150 stories—God knows how they came
in.’—‘In any man so gifted—so qualified to take the loftiest, proudest line
at the head of the literature, the taste, the imagination of the whole world!’
—" º, instance, he never sits at any particular place at table, but takes,'
&c. &c.
Among such worshippers, arriving in “sixteen parties a-day,' an
ordinary man might have grown buoyant; have felt the god, begun
to nod, and seemed to shake the spheres. Aslightly splenetic man,
possessed of Scott's sense, would have swept his premises clear
of them : Let no bluebottle approach here, to disturb a man in his
work,- under pain of sugared squash (called quassia) and king's
yellow ! The good Sir Walter, like a quiet brave man, did neither.
He let the matter take its course; enjoyed what was enjoyable in
it; endured what could not well be helped; persisted meanwhile
in writing his daily portion of romance-copy, in preserving his com-
posure of heart;—in a word, accommodated himself to this loud-
buzzing environment, and made it serve him, as he would have
done (perhaps with more ease) to a silent, poor and solitary one.
No doubt it affected him too, and in the lamentablest way fevered
his internal life, though he kept it well down; but it affected him
less than it would have done almost any other man. For his guests
were not all of the bluebottle sort; far from that, Mr. Lockhart
shall furnish us with the brightest aspect a British Ferney ever
yielded, or is like to yield: and therewith we will quit Abbotsford
and the dominant and culminant period of Scott's life:
‘It was a clear, bright September morning, with a sharpness in the air
that doubled the animating influence of the sunshine, and all was in readi-
ness for a grand coursing-match on Newark Hill. The only guest who had
chalked-out other sport for himself was the stanchest of anglers, Mr. Rose;
but he too was there on his shelty, armed with his salmon-rod and landing-
1 Vol. v. pp. 375-402.
| 70 MISCEI.LANIES.
net, and attended by his Hinves, and Charlie Purdie, a brother of Tom, in
those days the most celebrated fisherman of the district. This little group
of Waltonians, bound for Lord Somerville's preserve, remained lounging
about, to witness the start of the main cavalcade. Sir Walter, mounted on
Sibyl, was marshalling the order of procession with a huge hunting-whip;
and among a dozen frolicsome youths and maidens, who seemed disposed
to laugh at all discipline, appeared, each on horseback, each as eager as the
youngest sportsman in the troop, Sir Humphry Davy, Dr. Wollaston, and
the patriarch of Scottish belles-lettres, Henry Mackenzie. The Man of
Feeling, however, was persuaded with some difficulty to resign his steed for
the present to his faithful negro follower, and to join Lady Scott in the
sociable, until we should reach the ground of our battwe. Laidlaw, on a
strong-tailed wiry Highlander, yelept Hoddin Grey, which carried him
nimbly and stoutly, although his feet almost touched the ground as he sat,
was the adjutant. But the most picturesque figure was the illustrious in-
ventor of the safety-lamp. He had come for his favourite sport of angling,
and had been practising it successfully with Rose, his travelling com-
panion, for two or three days preceding this; but he had not prepared for
coursing fields, or had left Charlie Purdie's troop for Sir Walter's on a Sud-
den thought, and his fisherman's costume—a brown hat with flexible brim,
surrounded with line upon line of catgut, and innumerable fly-hooks—jack-
boots worthy of a Dutch smuggler, and a fustian surtout dabbled with the
blood of salmon, made a fine contrast with the Smart jackets, white-cord
breeches, and well-polished jockey-boots of the less distinguished cavaliers
about him. Dr. Wollaston was in black; and with his noble sereme dig-
mity of countenance might have passed for a sporting archbishop. Mr.
Mackenzie, at this time in the 76th year of his age, with a white hat turned
up with green, green spectacles, green jacket, and long brown leathern gai-
ters buttoned upon his nether anatomy, wore a dog-whistle round his neck,
and had, all over, the air of as resolute a devotee as the gay captain of
Huntly Burn. Tom Purdie and his subalterns had preceded us by a few
hours with all the greyhounds that could be collected at Abbotsford, Dar-
nick, and Melrose ; but the giant Maida had remained as his master's
orderly, and now gambolled about Sibyl Grey, barking for mere joy like a
Spaniel puppy.
‘The order of march had been all settled, and the sociable was just
getting under weigh, when the Lady Anne broke from the line, screaming
with laughter, and exclaimed, “Papa, papa, I knew you could never think
of going without your pet !” Scott looked round, and I rather think there
was a blush as well as a smile upon his face, when he perceived a little
black pig frisking about his pony, and evidently a self-elected addition to
the party of the day. He tried to look stern, and cracked his whip at the
creature, but was in a moment obliged to join in the general cheers. Poor
piggy soon found a strap round its neck, and was dragged into the back-
ground; –Scott, watching the retreat, repeated with mock pathos the first
verse of an old pastoral song—
“What will I do, gin my hoggie die?
My joy, my pride, my hoggie
My only beast, I had ma mae,
And wow ! but I was vogie l’”
—the cheers were redoubled—and the squadron moved on.
‘This pig had taken, nobody could tell how, a most sentimental attach-
ment to Scott, and was constantly urging its pretensions to be admitted a
regular member of his tail along with the greyhounds and terriers; but,
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 171
indeed, I remember him suffering another summer under the same sort of
pertinacity on the part of an affectionate hen. I leave the explanation for
philosophers;–but such were the facts. I have too much respect for the
vulgarly calumniated donkey, to name him in the same category of pets
with the pig and the hen; but a year or two after this time, my wife used
to drive a couple of these animals in a little garden-chair, and whenever
her father appeared at the door of our cottage, we were sure to see Hannah
More and Lady Morgan (as Anne Scott had wickedly christened them)
trotting from their pasture, to lay their noses over the paling, and, as
Washington Irving says of the old white-haired hedger with the Parisian
snuff-box, “to have a pleasant crack wi' the laird.”
“There' at Chiefswood “my wife and I spent this summer and autumn
of 1821;-the first of several seasons which will ever dwell on my memory
as the happiest of my life. We were near enough Abbotsford to partake
as often as we liked of its brilliant and constantly varying Society; yet
could do so without being exposed to the worry and exhaustion of spirit
1 Vol. v. pp. 7-10.
On this subject let us report an anecdote furnished by a correspondent of
our own, whose accuracy we can depend on :-‘ I myself was acquainted with
‘ a little Blenheim cocker, one of the smallest, beautifullest and wisest of lap-
‘ dogs or dogs, which, though Sir Walter knew it not, was very singular in its
‘behaviour towards him. Shandy, so hight this remarkable cocker, was ex-
‘tremely shy of strangers: promenading on Prince's Street, which in fine wea-
“ ther used to be crowded in those days, he seemed to live in perpetual fear of
“being stolen ; if any one but looked at him admiringly, he would draw-back
‘with angry timidity, and crouch towards his own lady-mistress. One day a
“tall, irregular, busy-looking man came halting by; the little dog ran towards
‘ him, began fawning, frisking, licking at his feet : it was Sir Walter Scott
“Had Shandy been the most extensive reader of Reviews, he could not have
‘ done better. Every time he saw Sir Walter afterwards, which was some three
“ or four times in the course of visiting Edinburgh, he repeated his demonstra-
‘tions, ran leaping, frisking, licking the Author of Waverley's feet. The good
* Sir Walter endured it with good-humour; looked down at the little wise face,
“at the silky shag-coat of snow-white and chestnut-brown ; Smiled, and avoided
‘ hitting him as they went on,-till a new division of streets or some other ob-
‘stacle put an end to the interview. In fact he was a strange little fellow, this
* Shandy. He has been known to sit for hours looking out at the summer
‘moon, with the saddest wistfullest expression of countenance; altogether like
‘ a Werterean Poet. He would have been a Poet, I daresay, if he could have
“found a publisher. But his moral tact was the most amazing. Without rea-
‘son shown, without word spoken or act done, he took his likings and dis-
‘likings; unalterable; really almost unerring. His chief aversion, I should
“say, was to the genus quack, above all to the genus acrid-quack; these, though
• never so clear-starched, bland-smiling and beneficent, he absolutely would
‘have no trade with. Their very sugar-cake was unavailing. He said with
‘ emphasis, as clearly as barking could say it: “Acrid-quack, avaunt ſ” Would
* to Heaven many a prime-minister, and high person in authority, had such an
‘invaluable talent On the whole, there is more in this universe than our phi-
* losophy has dreamt of. A dog's instinct is a voice of Nature too; and farther,
‘ it has never babbled itself away in idle jargon and hypothesis, but always ad-
* hered to the practical, and grown in silence by continual communion with
* fact. We do the animals injustice. Their body resembles our body, Buffon
“says; with its four limbs, with its spinal marrow, main organs in the head
‘ and so forth : but have they not a kind of soul, equally the rude draught and
* imperfect imitation of ours? It is a strange, an almost solemn and pathetic
‘thing to see an intelligence imprisoned in that dumb rude form ; struggling
“to express itself out of that;-even as we do out of our imprisonment ; and
‘succeed very imperfectly l’
172 MISCELLANIES.
which the daily reception of new-comers entailed upon all the family,
except Sir Walter himself. But, in truth, even he was not always proof
against the annoyances connected with such a style of open housekeeping.
Even his temper sank sometimes under the solemn applauses of learned
dulness, the vapid raptures of painted and periwigged dowagers, the horse-
leech avidity with which underbred foreigners urged their questions, and
the pompous simpers of condescending magnates. When sore beset at
home in this way, he would every now and then discover that he had some
very particular business to attend to on an outlying part of his estate;
and, craving the indulgence of his guests overnight, appear at the cabin
in the glen before its inhabitants were astir in the morning. The clatter
of Sibyl Grey's hoofs, the yelping of Mustard and Spice, and his own joy-
ous shout of réveillée under our windows, were the signal that he had
burst his toils, and meant for that day to “take his ease in his inn.” On
descending, he was to be found seated with all his dogs and ours about
him, under a spreading ash that overshadowed half the bank between the
cottage and the brook, pointing the edge of his woodman's-axe, and listen-
ing to Tom Purdie's lecture touching the plantation that most needed thin-
ning. After breakfast he would take possession of a dressing-room up-
stairs, and write a chapter of The Pirate; and then, having made up and
despatched his packet for Mr. Ballantyne, away to join Purdie wherever the
foresters were at work—and sometimes to labour among them as strenu-
ously as John Swanston, until it was time either to rejoin his own party
at Abbotsford, or the quiet circle of the cottage. When his guests were
few and friendly, he often made them come over and meet him at Chiefs-
wood in a body towards evening; and Surely he never appeared to more
amiable advantage than when helping his young people with their little
arrangements upon such occasions. He was ready with all sorts of devices
to supply the wants of a narrow establishment; he used to delight parti-
cularly in sinking the wine in a well under the brae ere he went out, and
hauling up the basket just before dinner was announced,—this primitive
device being, he said, what he had always practised when a young house-
keeper, and in his opinion far superior in its results to any application of
ice : and in the same spirit, whenever the weather was sufficiently genial,
he voted for dining out of doors altogether, which at once got rid of the
inconvenience of very Small rooms, and made it natural and easy for the
gentlemen to help the ladies, so that the paucity of servants went for
nothing.”
Surely all this is very beautiful; like a picture of Boccaccio:
the ideal of a country life in our time. Why could it not last?
Income was not wanting: Scott's official permanent income was
amply adequate to meet the expense of all that was valuable in it;
nay, of all that was not harassing, senseless and despicable. Scott
had some 2,000l. a-year without writing books at all. Why should
he manufacture and not create, to make more money; and rear
mass on mass for a dwelling to himself, till the pile toppled, sank
crashing, and buried him in its ruins, when he had a safe pleasant
dwelling ready of its own accord? Alas, Scott, with all his health,
was infected; sick of the fearfullest malady, that of Ambition . To
such length had.the King's baronetcy, the world's favour and “six-
" Vol. v. pp. 123, 124.
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 173
teen parties a-day,' brought it with him. So the inane racket must
be kept up, and rise ever higher. So masons labour, ditchers
delve; and there is endless, altogether deplorable correspondence
about marble-slabs for tables, wainscoting of rooms, curtains and
the trimmings of curtains, orange-coloured or fawn-coloured :
Walter Scott, one of the gifted of the world, whom his admirers
call the most gifted, must kill himself that he may be a country
gentleman, the founder of a race of Scottish lairds. It is one of
the strangest, most tragical histories ever enacted under this sun.
So poor a passion can lead so strong a man into such mad ex-
tremes. Surely, were not man a fool always, one might say there
was something eminently distracted in this, end as it would, of a
Walter Scott writing daily with the ardour of a steam-engine, that
he might make 15,000l. a year, and buy upholstery with it. To
cover the walls of a stone house in Selkirkshire with nicknacks,
ancient armour and genealogical shields, what can we name it but
a being bit with delirium of a kind? That tract after tract of
moorland in the shire of Selkirk should be joined together on
parchment and by ring-fence, and named after one's name, why,
it is a shabby small-type edition of your vulgar Napoleons, Alex-
anders, and conquering heroes, not counted venerable by any
teacher of men — #
*The whole world was not half so wide
To Alexander when he cried
Because he had but one to subdue,
As was a narrow paltry tub to
Diogenes; who ne'er was said,
For aught that ever I could read,
To whine, put finger i' the eye and sob,
Because he had ne'er another tub.’
Not he ' And if, “ looked at from the Moon, which itself is far
from Infinitude, Napoleon's dominions were as small as mine,
what, by any chance of possibility, could Abbotsford landed-pro-
perty ever have become 2 As the Arabs say, there is a black
speck, were it no bigger than a bean's eye, in every soul; which,
once set it a-working, will overcloud the whole man into darkness
and quasi-madness, and hurry him balefully into Night !
With respect to the literary character of these Waverley Novels,
so extraordinary in their commercial character, there remains,
after so much reviewing, good and bad, little that it were profit-
able at present to say. The great fact about them is, that they
were faster written and better paid for than any other books in
the world. It must be granted, moreover, that they have a worth
far surpassing what is usual in such cases; nay, that if Literature
had no task but that of harmlessly amusing indolent languid men,
174 MISCELLANIES.
here was the very perfection of Literature; that a man, here more
emphatically than ever elsewhere, might fling himself back, ex-
claiming, “Be mine to lie on this sofa, and read everlasting Novels
of Walter Scott!” The composition, slight as it often is, usually
hangs together in some measure, and is a composition. There is a
free flow of narrative, of incident and sentiment; an easy master-
like coherence throughout, as if it were the free dash of a master's
hand, ‘round as the O of Giotto.” It is the perfection of extem-
poraneous writing. Farthermore, surely he were a blind critic
who did not recognise here a certain genial sunshiny freshness
and picturesqueness; paintings both of scenery and figures, very
graceful, brilliant, occasionally full of grace and glowing bright-
ness blended in the softest composure; in fact, a deep sincere
love of the beautiful in Nature and Man, and the readiest faculty
of expressing this by imagination and by word. No fresher paint-
ings of Nature can be found than Scott's ; hardly anywhere a
wider sympathy with man. From Davie Deans up to Richard
Coeur-de-Lion; from Meg Merrilies to Die Vernon and Queen
Elizabeth ! It is the utterance of a man of open soul; of a brave,
large, free-seeing man, who has a true brotherhood with all men.
In joyous picturesqueness and fellow-feeling, freedom of eye and
heart; or to say it in a word, in general healthiness of mind, these
Novels prove Scott to have been amongst the foremost writers.
Neither in the higher and highest excellence, of drawing cha-
racter, is he at any time altogether deficient; though at no time
can we call him, in the best sense, successful. His Baillie Jarvies,
Dinmonts, Dalgettys (for their name is legion), do look and talk
like what they give themselves out for ; they are, if not created
and made poetically alive, yet deceptively enacted as a good player
might do them. What more is wanted, then 2 For the reader
lying on a sofa, nothing more; yet for another sort of reader,
much. It were a long chapter to unfold the difference in drawing
a character between a Scott, and a Shakspeare, a Goethe. Yet it
is a difference literally immense; they are of different species;
the value of the one is not to be counted in the coin of the other.
" * Venne a Firenze' (il cortigiano del Papa), “e andato una mattina in
‘bottega di Giotto, che lavorava, gli chiese un poco di disegno per mandarlo a
‘sua Santità. Giotto, che garbatissimo era, prese un foglio, ed in quello con
‘un pennello tinto di rosso, fermato il braccio al fianco per farne compasso, e
‘girato la mano fece un tondo si pari di Sesto e di profilo, che fu a vederlo una
‘maraviglia. Ciê fatto ghignando disse al cortigiano, Eccovi il disegno.’
‘ Onde il Papa, e molti cortigiani intendenti conobbero percio, quanto Giotto
‘avanzasse d’ eccelenza tutti gli altri pittori del suo tempo. Divolgatasi poi
* questa cosa, ne nacque il proverbio, che ancora è in uso dirsi a gli uomini di
‘grossa pasta: Tw sev più tondo che l’O di Giotto.”—Vasari, Vite (Roma,
1759), i. 46.
SIR WALTER SCOTT, 17:)
We might say in a short word, which means a long matter, that
your Shakspeare fashions his characters from the heart outwards;
your Scott fashions them from the skin inwards, never getting
near the heart of them The one set become living men and
women; the other amount to little more than mechanical cases,
deceptively painted automatons. Compare Fenella with Goethe's
Mignon, which, it was once said, Scott had ‘done Goethe the
honour’ to borrow. He has borrowed what he could of Mignon.
The small stature, the climbing talent, the trickiness, the mecha-
nical case, as we say, he has borrowed; but the soul of Mignon is
left behind. Fenella is an unfavourable specimen for Scott; but
it illustrates in the aggravated state, what is traceable in all the
characters he drew. To the same purport, indeed, we are to say
that these famed books are altogether addressed to the every-day
mind; that for any other mind, there is next to no nourishment
in them. Opinions, emotions, principles, doubts, beliefs, beyond
what the intelligent country gentleman can carry along with him,
are not to be found. It is orderly, customary, it is prudent, decent;
nothing more. One would say, it lay not in Scott to give much
more; getting out of the ordinary range, and attempting the heroic,
which is but seldom the case, he falls almost at once into the rose-
pink sentimental,—descries the Minerva Press from afar, and
hastily quits that course; for none better than he knew it to lead
nowhither. On the whole, contrasting Waverley, which was care-
fully written, with most of its followers, which were written ex-
tempore, one may regret the extempore method. Something very
perfect in its kind might have come from Scott; nor was it a low
kind : nay, who knows how high, with studious self-concentration,
he might have gone; what wealth Nature had implanted in him,
which his circumstances, most unkind while seeming to be kindest,
had never impelled him to unfold 2
But after all, in the loudest blaring and trumpeting of popu-
larity, it is ever to be held in mind, as a truth remaining true
forever, that Literature has other aims than that of harmlessly
amusing indolent languid men: or if Literature have them not,
then Literature is a very poor affair; and something else must
have them, and must accomplish them, with thanks or without
thanks; the thankful or thankless world were not long a world
otherwise ! Under this head there is little to be sought or found
in the Waverley Novels. Not profitable for doctrine, for reproof,
for edification, for building up or elevating, in any shape The
sick heart will find no healing here, the darkly struggling heart
no guidance: the Heroic that is in all men no divine awakening
voice. We say, therefore, that they do not found themselves on
176 MISCELLANIES.
deep interests, but on comparatively trivial ones; not on the
perennial, perhaps not even on the lasting. In fact, much of the
interest of these Novels results from what may be called contrasts
of costume. The phraseology, fashion of arms, of dress and life,
belonging to one age, is brought suddenly with singular vividness
before the eyes of another. A great effect this; yet by the very
nature of it, an altogether temporary one. Consider, brethren,
shall not we too one day be antiques, and grow to have as quaint
a costume as the rest? The stuffed Dandy, only give him time,
will become one of the wonderfullest mummies. In antiquarian
museums, only two centuries hence, the steeple-hat will hang on
the next peg to Franks and Company's patent, antiquarians de-
ciding which is uglier: and the Stulz swallow-tail, one may hope,
will seem as incredible as any garment that ever made ridiculous
the respectable back of man. Not by slashed breeches, steeple-
hats, buff-belts, or antiquated speech, can romance-heroes continue
to interest us; but simply and solely, in the long-run, by being
men. Buff-belts and all manner of jerkins and costumes are
transitory; man alone is perennial. He that has gone deeper into
this than other men, will be remembered longer than they ; he
that has not, not. Tried under this category, Scott, with his clear
practical insight, joyous temper, and other sound faculties, is not
to be accounted little, among the ordinary circulating-library
heroes he might well pass for a demigod. Not little; yet neither
is he great; there were greater, more than one or two, in his own
age: among the great of all ages, one sees no likelihood of a place
for him.
What then is the result of these Waverley Romances? Are
they to amuse one generation only 2 One or more | As many
generations as they can ; but not all generations: ah no, when
our swallow-tail has become fantastic as trunk-hose, they will cease
to amuse !—Meanwhile, as we can discern, their results have been
several-fold. First of all, and certainly not least of all, have they
not perhaps had this result : that a considerable portion of man-
kind has hereby been sated with mere amusement, and set on
seeking something better? Amusement in the way of reading can
go no farther, can do nothing better, by the power of man; and
men ask, Is this what it can do? Scott, we reckon, carried several
things to their ultimatum and crisis, so that change became in-
evitable: a great service, though an indirect one. Secondly, how-
ever, we may say, these Historical Novels have taught all men
this truth, which looks like a truism, and yet was as good as un-
known to writers of history and others, till so taught: that the
bygone ages of the world were actually filled by living men, not
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 177
by protocols, state-papers, controversies and abstractions of men.
Not abstractions were they, not diagrams and theorems; but men,
in buff or other coats and breeches, with colour in their cheeks,
with passions in their stomach, and the idioms, features and vitali-
ties of very men. It is a little word this; inclusive of great mean-
ing ! History will henceforth have to take thought of it. Her
faint hearsays of ‘philosophy teaching by experience’ will have to
exchange themselves everywhere for direct inspection and embodi-
ment: this, and this only, will be counted experience ; and till
once experience have got in, philosophy will reconcile herself to .
wait at the door. It is a great service, fertile in consequences,
this that Scott has done; a great truth laid open by him;-cor-
respondent indeed to the substantial nature of the man; to his
solidity and veracity even of imagination, which, with all his lively
discursiveness, was the characteristic of him.
A word here as to the extempore style of writing, which is
getting much celebrated in these days. Scott seems to have been
a high proficient in it. His rapidity was extreme; and the matter
produced was excellent, considering that: the circumstances under
which some of his Novels, when he could not himself write, were
dictated, are justly considered wonderful. It is a valuable faculty
this of ready writing; nay farther, for Scott's purpose it was
clearly the only good mode. By much labour he could not have
added one guinea to his copyright; nor could the reader on the
sofa have lain a whit more at ease. It was in all ways necessary
that these works should be produced rapidly; and, round or not,
be thrown-off like Giotto's O. But indeed, in all things, writing
or other, which a man engages in, there is the indispensablest
'beauty in knowing how to get done. A man frets himself to no
purpose; he has not the sleight of the trade; he is not a crafts-
man, but an unfortunate borer and bungler, if he know not when
to have done. Perfection is unattainable : no carpenter ever made
a mathematically accurate right-angle in the world; yet all carpen-
ters know when it is right enough, and do not botch it, and lose
their wages, by making it too right. Too much pains-taking speaks
disease in one's mind, as well as too little. The adroit sound-
minded man will endeavour to spend on each business approxi-
mately what of pains it deserves; and with a conscience void of
remorse will dismiss it then. All this in favour of easy writing
shall be granted, and, if need were, enforced and inculcated. And
yet, on the other hand, it shall not less but more strenuously be
inculcated, that in the way of writing, no great thing was ever, or
will ever be done with ease, but with difficulty | Let ready-writers
with any faculty in them lay this to heart. Is it with ease, or not
WOL. IV. N
178 MISCEI.LANIES.
with ease, that a man shall do his best, in any shape; above all, in
this shape justly named of “soul's travail,’ working in the deep
places of thought, embodying the True out of the Obscure and
Possible, environed on all sides with the uncreated False? Not
so, now or at any time. The experience of all men belies it; the
nature of things contradicts it. Virgil and Tacitus, were they
ready-writers? The whole Prophecies of Isaiah are not equal in
extent to this cobweb of a Review Article. Shakspeare, we may
fancy, wrote with rapidity; but not till he had thought with in-
tensity: long and sore had this man thought, as the seeing eye
may discern well, and had dwelt and wrestled amid dark pains
and throes, though his great soul is silent about all that. It was
for him to write rapidly at fit intervals, being ready to do it. And
herein truly lies the secret of the matter: such swiftness of mere
writing, after due energy of preparation, is doubtless the right
method; the hot furnace having long worked and simmered, let
the pure gold flow out at one gush. It was Shakspeare's plan;
no easy writer he, or he had never been a Shakspeare. Neither
was Milton one of the mob of gentlemen that write with ease; he
did not attain Shakspeare's faculty, one perceives, of even writing
fast after long preparation, but struggled while he wrote. Goethe
also tells us he “had nothing sent him in his sleep;' no page of
his but he knew well how it came there. It is reckoned to be the
best prose, accordingly, that has been written by any modern.
Schiller, as an unfortunate and unhealthy man, “könnte nie fertig
werden, never could get done;’ the noble genius of him struggled
not wisely but too well, and wore his life itself heroically out. Or
did Petrarch write easily? Dante sees himself ‘growing lean' over
his Divine Comedy; in stern solitary death-wrestle with it, to prevail
over it, and do it, if his uttermost faculty may: hence, too, it is
done and prevailed over, and the fiery life of it endures for ever-
more among men. No : creation, one would think, cannot be easy;
your Jove has severe pains, and fire-flames, in the head out of
which an armed Pallas is struggling! As for manufacture, that is
a different matter, and may become easy or not easy, according as
it is taken up. Yet of manufacture too, the general truth is that,
given the manufacturer, it will be worthy in direct proportion to
the pains bestowed upon it; and worthless always, or nearly so,
with no pains. Cease, therefore, O ready-writer, to brag openly of
thy rapidity and facility; to thee (if thou be in the manufacturing
line) it is a benefit, an increase of wages; but to me it is sheer
loss, worsening of my pennyworth: why wilt thou brag of it to
me? Write easily, by steam if thou canst contrive it, and canst
sell it; but hide it like virtue ! “Easy writing,” said Sheridan,
SIR WALTER SCOTT. - 179
“is sometimes d-d hard reading.” Sometimes; and always it is
sure to be rather useless reading, which indeed (to a creature of
few years and much work) may be reckoned the hardest of all.
Scott's productive facility amazed everybody; and set Captain
Hall, for one, upon a very strange method of accounting for it
without miracle ;-for which see his Journal, above quoted from.
The Captain, on counting line for line, found that he himself had
written in that Journal of his almost as much as Scott, at odd
hours in a given number of days; “and as for the invention,’ says
he, “it is known that this costs Scott nothing, but comes to him
of its own accord.’ Convenient indeed!—But for us too Scott's
rapidity is great, is a proof and consequence of the solid health
of the man, bodily and spiritual; great, but unmiraculous; not
greater than that of many others besides Captain Hall. Admire
it, yet with measure. For observe always, there are two condi-
tions in work: let me fix the quality, and you shall fix the quan-
tity! Any man may get through work rapidly who easily satisfies
himself about it. Print the talk of any man, there will be a thick
octavo volume daily; make his writing three times as good as his
talk, there will be the third part of a volume daily, which still is
good work. To write with never such rapidity in a passable man-
ner, is indicative not of a man's genius, but of his habits; it will
prove his soundness of nervous system, his practicality of mind,
and in fine, that he has the knack of his trade. In the most flat-
tering view, rapidity will betoken health of mind: much also, per-
haps most of all, will depend on health of body. Doubt it not, a
faculty of easy writing is attainable by man The human genius,
once fairly set in this direction, will carry it far. William Cobbett,
one of the healthiest of men, was a greater improviser even than
Walter Scott : his writing, considered as to quality and quantity,
of Rural Rides, Registers, Grammars, Sermons, Peter Porcupines,
Histories of Reformation, ever-fresh denouncements of Potatoes
and Papermoney, -seems to us still more wonderful. Pierre
Bayle wrote enormous folios, one sees not on what motive-prin-
ciple ; he flowed-on forever, a mighty tide of ditch-water; and
even died flowing, with the pen in his hand. But indeed the
most unaccountable ready-writer of all is, probably, the common
Editor of a Daily Newspaper. Consider his leading articles; what
they treat of, how passably they are done. Straw that has been
thrashed a hundred times without wheat; ephemeral sound of a
sound ; such portent of the hour as all men have seen a hundred
times turn out inane: how a man, with merely human faculty,
buckles himself nightly with new vigour and interest to this
thrashed straw, nightly thrashes it anew, nightly gets-up new
180 MISCELLANIES.
thunder about it; and so goes on thrashing and thundering for a
considerable series of years; this is a fact remaining still to be
accounted for, in human physiology. The vitality of man is great.
Or shall we say, Scott, among the many things he carried to-
wards their ultimatum and crisis, carried this of ready-Writing too,
that so all men might better see what was in it? It is a valuable
consummation. Not without results;–results, at some of which
Scott as a Tory politician would have greatly shuddered. For if
once Printing have grown to be as Talk, then DEMocracy (if we
look into the roots of things) is not a bugbear and probability,
but a certainty, and event as good as come ! “Inevitable seems it
me.' But leaving this, sure enough the triumph of ready-writing
appears to be even now ; everywhere the ready-writer is found
bragging strangely of his readiness. In a late translated Don
Carlos, one of the most indifferent translations ever done with any
sign of ability, a hitherto unknown individual is found assuring
his reader, “The reader will possibly think it an excuse, when I
‘assure him that the whole piece was completed within the space
‘ of ten weeks, that is to say, between the sixth of January and
‘the eighteenth of March of this year (inclusive of a fortnight's
‘ interruption from over-exertion); that I often translated twenty
‘pages a-day, and that the fifth act was the work of five days.”
O hitherto unknown individual, what is it to me what time it was
the work of, whether five days or five decades of years ? The only
question is, How hast thou done it 2—So, however, it stands: the
genius of Extempore irresistibly lording it, advancing on us like
ocean-tides, like Noah's deluges—of ditch-water | The prospect
seems one of the lamentablest. To have all Literature swum away
from us in watery Extempore, and a spiritual time of Noah super-
vene 2 That surely is an awful reflection; worthy of dyspeptic
Matthew Bramble in a London fog ' Be of comfort, O splenetic
Matthew ; it is not Literature they are swimming away; it is only
Book-publishing and Book-selling. Was there not a Literature
before Printing or Faust of Mentz, and yet men wrote extempore?
Nay, before Writing or Cadmus of Thebes, and yet men spoke ex-
tempore? Literature is the Thought of thinking Souls; this, by
the blessing of God, can in no generation be swum away, but re-
mains with us to the end.
Scott's career, of writing impromptu novels to buy farms with,
was not of a kind to terminate voluntarily, but to accelerate itself
more and more; and one sees not to what wise goal it could,
* Don Cartos, a Dramatic Poem, from the German of Schiller. Mannheim
and London, 1837. .
SIR WALTE, H. SCOTT. 181
in any case, have led him. Bookseller Constable's bankruptcy
was not the ruin of Scott ; his ruin was, that ambition, and even
false ambition, had laid hold of him ; that his way of life was
not wise. Whither could it lead 2 Where could it stop 2 New
farms there remained ever to be bought, while new novels could
pay for them. More and more success but gave more and more
appetite, more and more audacity. The impromptu writing must
have waxed ever thinner; declined faster and faster into the ques-
tionable category, into the condemnable, into the generally con-
demned. Already there existed, in secret, everywhere a consider-
able opposition party; witnesses of the Waverley miracles, but
unable to believe in them, forced silently to protest against them.
Such opposition party was in the sure case to grow ; and even,
with the impromptu process ever going on, ever waxing thinner,
to draw the world over to it. Silent protest must at length come
to words; harsh truths, backed by harsher facts of a world-popu-
larity overwrought and worn-out, behoved to have been spoken ;
—such as can be spoken now without reluctance, when they can
pain the brave man's heart no more. Who knows? Perhaps it
was better ordered to be all otherwise. Otherwise, at any rate, it
was. One day the Constable mountain, which seemed to stand
strong like the other rock mountains, gave suddenly, as the ice-
bergs do, a loud-sounding crack; suddenly, with huge clangor,
shivered itself into ice-dust; and sank, carrying much along with
it. In one day Scott's high-heaped money-wages became fairy-
money and nonentity; in one day the rich man and lord of land
saw himself penniless, landless, a bankrupt among creditors.
It was a hard trial. He met it proudly, bravely,–like a brave
proud man of the world. Perhaps there had been a prouder way
still: to have owned honestly that he was unsuccessful then, all
bankrupt, broken, in the world's goods and repute; and to have
turned elsewhither for some refuge. Refuge did lie elsewhere;
but it was not Scott's course, or fashion of mind, to seek it there.
To say, Hitherto I have been all in the wrong, and this my fame
and pride, now broken, was an empty delusion and spell of accursed
witchcraft. It was difficult for flesh and blood He said, I will
retrieve myself, and make my point good yet, or die for it. Silently,
like a proud strong man, he girt himself to the Hercules' task, of
removing rubbish-mountains, since that was it; of paying large
ransoms by what he could still write and sell. In his declining
years too; misfortune is doubly and trebly unfortunate that befalls
us then. Scott fell to his Hercules' task like a very man, and went
on with it unweariedly; with a noble cheerfulness, while his life-
strings were cracking, he grappled with it, and wrestled with it,
182 MISCEI.T.ANIES.
years long, in death-grips, strength to strength;—and it proved
the stronger; and his life and heart did crack and break: the
, cordage of a most strong heart | Over these last writings of Scott,
his Napoleons, Demonologies, Scotch Histories, and the rest, criticism,
finding still much to wonder at, much to commend, will utter no
word of blame; this one word only, Woe is me! The noble war-
horse that once laughed at the shaking of the spear, how is he
doomed to toil himself dead, dragging ignoble wheels ] Scott's
descent was like that of a spent projectile; rapid, straight down;
—perhaps mercifully so. It is a tragedy, as all life is ; one proof
more that Fortune stands on a restless globe; that Ambition, liter-
ary, warlike, politic, pecuniary, never yet profited any man.
Our last extract shall be from Volume Sixth ; a very tragical
one. Tragical, yet still beautiful; waste Ruin's havoc borrowing
a kind of sacredness from a yet sterner visitation, that of Death !
Scott has withdrawn into a solitary lodging-house in Edinburgh,
to do daily the day's work there ; and had to leave his wife at
Abbotsford in the last stage of disease. He went away silently;
looked silently at the sleeping face he scarcely hoped ever to see
again. We quote from a Diary he had begun to keep in those
months, on hint from Byron's Ravenna Journal: copious sections
of it render this Sixth Volume more interesting than any of the
former ones: -
‘Abbotsford, May 11 (1826).- * * It withers my heart to think of it,
and to recollect that I can hardly hope again to seek confidence and coun-
sel from that ear, to which all might be safely confided. But in her present
lethargic state, what would my attendance have availed?—and Anne has
promised close and constant intelligence. I must dine with James Ballan-
tyne today en famille. I cannot help it; but would rather be at home and
alone. However, I can go out too. I will not yield to the barren sense of
hopelessness which struggles to invade me.
‘Edinburgh, Mrs. Brown's lodgings, North St. David Street—May 12.
—I passed a pleasant day with kind J. B., which was a great relief from
the black dog, which would have worried me at home. He was quite alone.
“Well, here I am in Arden. And I may say with Touchstone, “When
I was at home I was in a better place;” I must, when there is occasion, draw
to my own Baillie Nicol Jarvie's consolation—“One cannot carry the com-
forts of the Saut-Market about with one.” Were I at ease in mind. I think
the body is very well cared for. Only one other lodger in the house, a Mr.
Shandy, a clergyman, and, despite his name, said to be a quiet one.’
‘May 14.—A fair good-morrow to you, Mr. Sun, who are shining so
brightly on these dull walls. Methinks you look as if you were looking as
bright on the banks of the Tweed ; but look where you will, Sir Sun, you
look upon sorrow and suffering.—Hogg was here yesterday, in danger, from
having obtained an accommodation of 100l. from James Ballantyne, which
he is now obliged to repay. I am unable to help the poor fellow, being
obliged to borrow myself.'
* May 15.—Received the melancholy intelligence that all is over at Ab-
botsford.” -
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 183
‘Abbotsford, May 16.—She died at nine in the morning, after being
very ill for two days—easy at last. I arrived here late last night. Anne
is worn out, and has had hysterics, which returned on my arrival. Her
broken accents were like those of a child, the language as well as the tones
broken, but in the most gentle voice of submission. “Poor mamma—never
return again—gone forever—a better place.” Then, when she came to her-
self, she spoke with sense, freedom and strength of mind, till her weakness
returned. It would have been inexpressibly moving to me as a stranger—
what was it then to the father and the husband? For myself, I scarce
know how I feel; sometimes as firm as the Bass Rock, sometimes as weak
as the water that breaks on it. I am as alert at thinking and deciding as I
ever was in my life. Yet, when I contrast what this place now is, with what
it has been not long since, I think my heart will break. Lonely, aged, de-
prived of my family—all but poor Anne ; an impoverished, an embarrassed
man, deprived of the sharer of my thoughts and counsels, who could always
talk-down my sense of the calamitous apprehensions which break the heart
that must bear them alone,—Even her foibles were of service to me, by
giving me things to think of beyond my weary self reflections.
‘I have seen her. The figure I beheld is, and is not my Charlotte—
my thirty-years companion. There is the same symmetry of form, though
those limbs are rigid which were once so gracefully elastic—but that yellow
mask, with pinched features, which seems to mock life rather than emulate
it, can it be the face that was once so full of lively expression? I will not
look on it again. Anne thinks her little changed, because the latest idea
she had formed of her mother is as she appeared under circumstances of
extreme pain. Mine go back to a period of comparative ease. If I write
long in this way, I shall write-down my resolution, which I should rather
write-up, if I could.”
‘May 18.- * * Cerements of lead and of wood already hold her; cold
earth must have her soon. But it is not my Charlotte, it is not the bride
of my youth, the mother of my children, that will be laid among the ruins
of Dryburgh, which we have so often visited in gaiety and pastime. No, no.’
‘May 22.— * * Well, I am not apt to shrink from that which is my
duty, merely because it is painful; but I wish this funeral-day over. A
kind of cloud of stupidity hangs about me, as if all were unreal that men
seem to be doing and talking.’
‘May 26.- * * Were an enemy coming upon my house, would I not
do my best to fight, although oppressed in spirits; and shall a similar de-
spondency prevent me from mental exertion? It shall not, by Heaven"
‘Edinburgh, May 30.—Returned to town last night with Charles. This
morning resume ordinary habits of rising early, working in the morning,
and attending the Court. * * * I finished correcting the proofs for the
Quarterly; it is but a flimsy article, but then the circumstances were most
untoward.—This has been a melancholy day—most melancholy. I am :
afraid poor Charles found me weeping. I do not know what other folks
feel, but with me the hysterical passion that impels tears is a terrible vio-
lence—a sort of throttling sensation—then succeeded by a state of dreaming
stupidity, in which I ask if my poor Charlotte can actually be dead.”
This is beautiful as well as tragical. Other scenes, in that
Seventh Volume, must come, which will have no beauty, but be
tragical only. It is better that we are to end here.
And so the curtain falls; and the strong Walter Scott is with
1 Vol. vi. pp. 297-307.
184 MISCELLANIES,
us no more. A possession from him does remain; widely scat-
tered; yet attainable; not inconsiderable. It can be said of
him, When he departed, he took a Man's life along with him.
No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that
eighteenth century of Time. Alas, his fine Scotch face, with its
shaggy honesty, sagacity and goodness, when we saw it latterly
on the Edinburgh streets, was all worn with care, the joy all fled
from it;-ploughed deep with labour and sorrow. We shall never
forget it; we shall never see it again. Adieu, Sir Walter, pride of
all Scotchmen, take our proud and sad farewell.
185
WARNEHAGEN WON ENSE'S MEMOIRS.1
[1838.]
THE Lady Rahel, or Rachel, surnamed Levin in her maiden days,
who died some five years ago as Madam Varnhagen von Ense,
seems to be still memorable and notable, or to have become more
than ever so, among our German friends. The widower, long
known in Berlin and Germany for an intelligent and estimable
man, has here published successively, as author, or as editor and
annotator, so many Volumes, Nine in all, about her, about himself,
and the things that occupied and environed them. Nine Volumes,
properly, of German Memoirs ; of letters, of miscellanies, biogra-
phical and autobiographical; which we have read not without zeal
and diligence, and in part with great pleasure. It seems to us
that such of our readers as take interest in things German, ought
to be apprised of this Publication; and withal that there are in it
enough of things European and universal to furnish-out a few
pages for readers not specially of that class.
One may hope, Germany is no longer to any person that vacant
land, of gray vapour and chimeras, which it was to most English-
men, not many years ago. One may hope that, as readers of Ger-
man have increased a hundredfold, some partial intelligence of
Germany, some interest in things German, may have increased in
a proportionably higher ratio. At all events, Memoirs of men,
German or other, will find listeners among men. Sure enough,
Berlin city, on the sandy banks of the Spree, is a living city,
even as London is, on the muddy banks of Thames. Daily, with
every rising of the blessed heavenly light, Berlin sends up the
smoke of a hundred-thousand kindled hearths, the fret and stir of
five-hundred-thousand new-awakened human souls;–marking or
defacing with such smoke-cloud, material or spiritual, the serene of
1 LONDON AND WESTMINSTER REVIEW, No. 62.-1. Rahel. Ein Buch des
Andenkens für öhre Freunde (Rahel. A Book of Memorial for her Friends).
3 vols. Berlin, 1834.
2. Gallerie von Bildnissen aws Rahel's Umgang wnd Briefwechsel (Gallery
of Portraits from Rahel's Circle of Society and Correspondence). Edited by
K. A. Varnhagen von Ense. 2 vols. Leipzig, 1836.
3. *: wnd vermischte Schriften (Memoirs and Miscellaneous
Writings). By K. A. Warnhagen von Ense. 4 vols. Mannheim, 1837-38.

186 MISCELLANIES.
our common all-embracing Heaven. One Heaven, the same for
all, embraces that smoke-cloud too, adopts it, absorbs it, like the
rest. Are there not dinner-parties, ‘aesthetic teas;’ scandal-mong-
eries, changes of ministry, police-cases, literary gazettes? The
clack of tongues, the sound of hammers, mounts up in that corner
of the Planet too, for certain centuries of Time. Berlin has its
royalties and diplomacies, its traffickings, travailings; literatures,
sculptures, cultivated heads, male and female; and boasts itself to
be “the intellectual capital of Germany.’ Nine Volumes of Me-
moirs out of Berlin will surely contain something for us.
Samuel Johnson, or perhaps another, used to say, there was no
man on the streets whose biography he would not like to be ac-
quainted with. No rudest mortal walking there who has not seen
and known experimentally something, which, could he tell it, the
wisest would hear willingly from him Nay, after all that can be
said and celebrated about poetry, eloquence and the higher forms
of composition and utterance; is not the primary use of speech
itself this same, to utter memoirs, that is, memorable experiences to
our fellow-creatures? A fact is a fact ; man is forever the brother
of man. That thou, O my brother, impart to me truly how it
stands with thee in that inner man of thine, what lively images of
things past thy memory has painted there, what hopes, what
thoughts, affections, knowledges do now dwell there : for this and
for no other object that I can see, was the gift of speech and of
hearing bestowed on us two. I say not how thou feignest. Thy
fictions, and thousand-and-one Arabian Nights, promulgated as
fictions, what are they also at bottom but this, things that are in
thee, though only images of things? But to bewilder me with
Jalsehoods, indeed ; to ray-out error and darkness, misintelligence,
which means misattainment, otherwise failure and sorrow ; to go
about confusing worse our poor world's confusion, and, as a son of
Nox and Chaos, propagate delirium on earth : not surely with this
view, but with a far different one, was that miraculous tongue sus-
pended in thy head, and set vibrating there !—In a word, do not
two things, veracity and memoir-writing, seem to be prescribed by
Nature herself and the very constitution of mari 2 Let us read,
therefore, according to opportunity,+and, with judicious audacity,
review 1
Our Nine printed Volumes we called German Memoirs. They
agree in this general character, but are otherwise to be distin-
guished into kinds, and differ very much in their worth for us.
The first book on our list, entitled Rahel, is a book of private let-
ters; three thick volumes of Letters written by that lady; selected
from her wide correspondence; with a short introduction, with
v.ARNHAGEN von ENSE's MEMOIRS. 187
here and there a short note, and that on Warnhagen's part is all.
Then follows, in two volumes, the work named Gallery of Portraits ;
consisting principally of Letters to Rahel, by various persons,
mostly persons of note; to which Varnhagen, as editor, has joined
some slight commentary, some short biographical sketch of each.
Of these five volumes of German Letters we will say, for the pre-
sent, that they seem to be calculated for Germany, and even for
some special circle there, rather than for England or us. A glance
at them afterwards, we hope, will be possible. But the third work,
that of Warnhagen himself, is the one we must chiefly depend on
here : the four volumes of Memoirs and Miscellanies; lively pieces;
which can be safely recommended as altogether pleasant reading
to every one. They are ‘Miscellaneous Writings,’ as their title
indicates; in part collected and reprinted out of periodicals, or
wherever they lay scattered; in part sent forth now for the first
time. There are criticisms, notices literary or didactic ; always of
a praiseworthy sort, generally of small extent. There are narra-
tions; there is a long personal narrative, as it might be called, of
service in the “Liberation War' of 1814, wherein Varnhagen did
duty as a volunteer officer in Tettenborn's corps, among the Cos-
sacks: this is the longest piece, by no means the best. There is
farther a curious narrative of Lafayette's escape (brief escape with
recapture) from the Prison of Olmütz. Then also there is a curi-
ous biography of Doctor Bollmann, the brave young Hanoverian,
who aided Lafayette in that adventure. Then other biographies
not so curious; on the whole, there are many biographies: Bio-
graphy, we might say, is the staple article; an article in which Warn-
hagen has long been known to excel. Lastly, as basis for the
whole, there are presented, fitfully, now here, now there, and with
long intervals, considerable sections of Autobiography;—not con-
fessions, indeed, or questionable work of the Rousseau Sort, but
discreet reminiscences, personal and other, of a man who having
looked on much, may be sure of willing audience in reporting it well.
These are the Four Volumes written by Varnhagen von Ense; those
are the Five edited by him. We shall regard his autobiographic
memorials as a general substratum, upholding and uniting into a
certain coherence the multifarious contents of these publications:
it is Warnhagen von Ense's Passage through Life; this is what it
yielded him ; these are the things and persons he took note of, and
had to do with, in travelling thus far.
Beyond ascertaining for ourselves what manner of eyesight and
way of judgment this our Memoir-writer has, it is not necessary to
insist much on Varnhagen's qualities or literary character here.
He seems to us a man peculiarly fitted, both by natural endoW-
I88 MISCELLANIES.
w
*
ment and by position and opportunity, for writing memoirs. In
the space of half a century that he has lived in this world, his
course has been what we might call erratic in a high degree : from
the student's garret in Halle or Tübingen to the Tuileries hall of
audience and the Wagram battle-field, from Chamisso the poet to
Napoleon the emperor, his path has intersected all manner of
paths of men, He has a fine intellectual gift; and what is the
foundation of that and of all, an honest, sympathising, manfully
patient, manfully courageous heart. His way of life, too erratic
we should fear for happiness or ease, and singularly checkered by
vicissitude, has had this considerable advantage, if no other, that
it has trained him, and could not but train him, to a certain catho-
licism of mind. He has been a student of literature, an author, a
student of medicine, a soldier, a secretary, a diplomatist. A man
withal of modest, affectionate nature ; courteous and yet truthful;
of quick apprehension, precise in utterance; of just, extensive,
occasionally of deep and fine insight: this is a man qualified be-
yond most to write memoirs. We should call him one of the best
memoir-writers we have met with ; decidedly the best we know of in
these days. For clearness, grace of method, easy comprehensibility,
he is worthy to be ranked among the French, who have a natural
turn for memoir-writing; and in respect of honesty, valorous gen-
tleness and simplicity of heart, his character is German, not French.
Such a man, conducting us in the spirit of cheerful friendliness
along his course of life, and delineating what he has found most
memorable in it, produces one of the pleasantest books. Brave
old Germany, in this and the other living phasis, now here, now
there, from Rhineland to the East-sea, from Hamburg and Berlin
to Deutsch-Wagram and the Marchfeld, paints itself in the colours
of reality; with notable persons, with notable events. For con-
sider withal in what a time this man's life has lain : in the thick of
European things, while the Nineteenth Century was opening itself.
Amid convulsions and revolutions, outward and inward, with
Napoleons, Goethes, Fichtes; while prodigies and battle-thunder
shook the world, and, “amid the glare of conflagrations, and the
noise of falling towns and kingdoms,' a New Era of Thought was
also evolving itself: one of the wonderfullest times | On the whole,
if men like Varnhagen were to be met with, why have we not in-
numerable Memoirs? Alas, it is because the men like Varnhagen
are not to be met with ; men with the clear eye and the open heart.
Without such qualities, memoir-writers are but a nuisance; which,
so often as they show themselves, a judicious world is obliged to
sweep into the cesspool, with loudest possible prohibition of the
like. If a man is not open-minded, if he is ignorant, perverse, ego-
WARNHAGEN voN ENSE's MEMOIRs. 189
istic, splenetic ; on the whole, if he is false and stupid, how shall
he write memoirs?—
From Varnhagen's young years, especially from his college
years, we could extract many a lively little sketch, of figures parti-
ally known to the reader: of Chamisso, La Motte Fouqué, Raumer,
and other the like; of Platonic Schleiermacher, sharp, crabbed,
shrunken, with his wire-drawn logic, his sarcasms, his sly mali-
cious ways; of Homeric Wolf, with his biting wit, with his grim
earnestness and inextinguishable Homeric laugh, the irascible
great-hearted man. Or of La Fontaine, the sentimental novelist,
over whose rose-coloured moral-sublime what fair eye has not
wept 2 Varnhagen found him “in a pleasant house near the Saale-
gate' of Halle, with an ugly good-tempered wife, with a pretty niece,
which latter he would not allow to read a word of his romance-stuff,
but kept it locked from her like poison;' a man jovial as Boni-
face, swollem-out on booksellers' profit, church-preferments and fat
things, ‘to the size of a hogshead;’ for the rest, writing with such
velocity (he did some hundred-and-fifty weeping volumes in his
time) that he was obliged to hold-in, and ‘write only two days in
the week: ' this was La Fontaine, the sentimental novelist. But
omitting all these, let us pick-out a family-picture of one far better
worth looking at: Jean Paul in his little home at Baireuth, ‘little
city of my habitation, which I belong to on this side the gravel’
It is Sunday, the 23d of October 1808, according to Warnhagen's
note-book. The ingenious youth of four-and-twenty, as a rambling
student, passes the day of rest there, and luckily for us has kept
memorandums :
* Visit to Jean Paul Friedrich Richter.—This forenoon I went to Jean
Paul's. Friend Harscher was out of humour, and would not go, say what
I would. I too, for that matter, am but a poor, nameless student; but
what of that ?
“A pleasant, kindly, inquisitive woman, who had opened the door to me,
I at once recognised for Jean Paul's wife by her likeness to her sister. A
child was sent off to call its father. He came directly; he had been fore-
warned of my visit by letters from Berlin and Leipzig; and received me
with great kindness. As he seated himself beside me on the sofa, I had
almost laughed in his face, for in bending down somewhat he had the very
look our Neumann, in his Versuchen wrºd Hindermissen, has jestingly given
him, and his speaking and what he spoke confirmed that impression. Jean
Paul is of stout figure; has a full, well-ordered face; the eyes small, gleam-
ing-out on you with lambent fire, then again veiled in soft dimness; the
mouth friendly, and with some slight motion in it even when silent. His
speech is rapid, almost hasty, even stuttering somewhat here and there ;
not without a certain degree of dialect, difficult to designate, but which pro-
bably is some mixture of Frankish and Saxon, and of course is altogether
kept-down within the rules of cultivated language.
190 - MISCELLANIES.
* First of all, I had to tell him what I was charged with in the shape of
messages, then whatsoever I could tell in any way, about his Berlin friends.
He willingly remembered the time he had lived in Berlin, as Marcus Herz's
neighbour, in Leder's house; where I, seven years before, had first seen
him in the garden by the Spree, with papers in his hand, which it was pri-
vately whispered were leaves of Hesperus. This talk about persons, and then
still more about Literature growing out of that, set him fairly underway, and
soon he had more to impart than to inquire. His conversation was through-
out amiable and good-natured, always full of meaning, but in quite simple
tone and expression. Though I knew beforehand that his wit and humour
belonged only to his pen, that he could hardly write the shortest note with-
out these introducing themselves, while on the contrary his oral utterance
seldom showed the like, yet it struck me much that, in this continual
movement and vivacity of mood to which he yielded himself, I observed no
trace of these qualities. His demeanour otherwise was like his speaking ;
nothing forced, nothing studied, nothing that went beyond the burghertone.
His courtesy was the free expression of a kind heart; his way and bearing
were patriarchal, considerate of the stranger, yet for himself too altogether
unconstrained. Neither in the animation to which some word or topic would
excite him, was this fundamental temper ever altered; nowhere did severity
appear, nowhere any exhibiting of himself, any watching or spying of his
hearer; everywhere kindheartedness, free movement of his somewhat loose-
flowing nature, open course for him, with a hundred transitions from one
course to the other, howsoever or whithersoever it seemed good to him to
go. At first he praised everything that was named of our new appearances
in Literature; and then, when we came a little closer to the matter, there
was blame enough and to spare. So of Adam Müller's Lectures, of Fried-
rich Schlegel, of Tieck and others. He said, German writers ought to hold
by the people, not by the upper classes, among whom all was already dead
and gone; and yet he had just been praising Adam Müller, that he had the
gift of speaking a deep word to cultivated people of the world. He is con-
vinced that from the opening of the old Indian world nothing is to be got
for us, except the adding of one other mode of poetry to the many modes
we have already, but no increase of ideas: and yet he had just been cele-
brating Friedrich Schlegel's labours with the Sanscrit, as if a new salvation
were to issue out of that. He was free to confess that a right Christian in
these days, if not a Protestant one, was inconceivable to him; that chang-
ing from Protestantism to Catholicism seemed a monstrous perversion; and
with this opinion great hope had been expressed, a few minutes before,
that the Catholic spirit in Friedrich Schlegel, combined with the Indian,
would produce much good! Of Schleiermacher he spoke with respect; sig-
nified, however, that he did not relish his Plato greatly; that in Jacobi's, in
Herder's soaring flight of soul he traced far more of those divine old Sages
than in the learned acumen of Schleiermacher; a deliverance which I could
not let pass without protest. Fichte, of whose Addresses to the German
Nation, held in Berlin under the sound of French drums, I had much to
say, was not a favourite of his; the decisiveness of that energy gave him
uneasiness; he said he could only read Fichte as an exercise, “gymnasti-
cally,” and that with the purport of his Philosophy he had now nothing
more to do.
‘Jean Paul was called out, and I stayed a while alone with his wife. I
had now to answer many new questions about Berlin; her interest in per-
sons and things of her native town was by no means sated with what she
had already heard. The lady pleased me exceedingly; soft, refined, acute,
VARNHAGEN VON ENSE's MEMOIRs. 191
she united with the loveliest expression of household goodness an air of
higher breeding and freer management than Jean Paul seemed to manifest.
Yet, in this respect too, she willingly held herself inferior, and looked-up
to her gifted husband. It was apparent everyway that their life together
was a right happy one. Their three children, a boy and two girls, are
beautiful, healthy, well-conditioned creatures. I had a hearty pleasure in
them; they recalled other dear children to my thoughts, whom I had
lately been besideſ :* * *
“With continual copiousness and in the best humour, Jean Paul (we
were now at table) expatiated on all manner of objects. Among the rest,
I had been charged with a salutation from Rahel Levin to him, and the
modest question, “Whether he remembered her still?” His face beamed
with joyful satisfaction: “How could one forget such a person 2" cried he
impressively. “That is a woman alone of her kind: I liked her heartily
well, and more now than ever, as I gain in sense and apprehension to do
it; she is the only woman in whom I have found genuine humour, the one
woman of this world who had humour !” He called me a lucky fellow to
have such a friend; and asked, as if proving me and measuring my value,
How I had deserved that ?
“Monday, 24th October.—Being invited, I went a second time to dine.
Jean Paul had just returned from a walk; his wife, with one of the chil-
dren, was still out. We came upon his writings; that questionable string
with most authors, which the one will not have you touch, which another
will have you keep jingling continually. He was here what I expected him
to be; free, unconstrained, goodnatured, and sincere with his whole heart.
His Dream of a Madman, just published by Cotta, was what had led us
upon this. He said he could write such things at any time; the mood for
it, when he was in health, lay in his own power; he did but seat himself at
the harpsichord, and fantasying for a while on it, in the wildest way, deliver
himself over to the feeling of the moment, and then write his imaginings,
—according to a certain predetermined course, indeed, which however he
would often alter as he went on. In this kind he had once undertaken to
write a Hell, such as mortal never heard of; and a great deal of it is
actually done; but not fit for print. Speaking of descriptive composition,
he also started as in fright when I ventured to say that Goethe was less
complete in this province; he reminded me of two passages in Werter,
which are indeed among the finest descriptions. He said that to describe
any scene well, the poet must make the bosom of a man his camera obscura,
and look at it through this, then would he see it poetically. * *
‘The conversation turned on public occurrences, on the condition of
Germany, and the oppressive rule of the French. To me discussions of
that sort are usually disagreeable; but it was delightful to hear Jean Paul
express, on such occasion, his noble patriotic sentiments; and, for the sake
of this rock-island, I willingly swam through the empty tide of uncertain
news and wavering suppositions which environed it. What he said was
deep, considerate, hearty, valiant, German to the marrow of the bone. I
had to tell him much; of Napoleon, whom he knew only by portraits; of
Johannes von Müller; of Fichte, whom he now as a patriot admired cor-
dially; of the Marquez de la Romana and his Spaniards, whom I had seen
in Hamburg. Jean Paul said he at no moment doubted, but the Germans,
like the Spaniards, would one day rise, and Prussia would avenge its dis-
grace, and free the country; he hoped his son would live to see it, and did
not deny that he was bringing him up for a soldier. § {} {}
‘October 25th.-I stayed to supper, contrary to my purpose, having to
192 MISCELLANIES.
set-out next morning early. The lady was so kind, and Jean Paul himself
so trustful and blithe, I could not withstand their entreaties. At the neat
and well-furnished table (reminding you that South Germany was now
near), the best humour reigned. Among other things, we had a good
laugh at this, that Jean Paul offered me an introduction to one of what he
called his dearest friends in Stuttgart, and then was obliged to give it up,
having irrecoverably forgotten his name ! Of a more serious sort, again,
was our conversation about Tieck, Friedrich and Wilhelm Schlegel, and
others of the romantic school. He seemed in ill humour with Tieck at
the moment. Of Goethe he said: “Goethe is a consecrated head; he has
a place of his own, high above us all.” We spoke of Goethe afterwards,
for some time: Jean Paul, with more and more admiration, nay with a sort
of fear and awe-struck reverence.
“Some beautiful fruit was brought-in for dessert. On a sudden, Jean
Paul started up, gave me his hand, and said: “Forgive me, I must go to
bed! Stay you here in God's name, for it is still early, and chat with my
wife; there is much to say, between you, which my talking has kept back.
I am a Spiessburger” (of the Club of Odd Fellows), “and my hour is come
for sleep.” He took a candle, and said good-night. We parted with great
cordiality, and the wish expressed on both sides, that I might stay at Bai-
reuth another time.’
These biographic phenomena; Jean Paul's loose-flowing talk,
his careless variable judgments of men and things; the prosaic
basis of the free-and-easy in domestic life with the poetic Shan-
dean, Shakspearean, and even Dantesque, that grew from it as its
public outcome ; all this Varnhagen had to rhyme and reconcile
for himself as he best could. The loose-flowing talk and variable
judgments, the fact that Richter went along, “looking only right be-
fore him as with blinders on,' seemed to Varnhagen a pardonable,
may an amiable peculiarity, the mark of a trustful, spontaneous,
artless nature; connected with whatever was best in Jean Paul.
He found him on the whole (what we at a distance have always
done) ‘a genuine and noble man: no deception or impurity exists
“in his life: he is altogether as he writes, lovable, hearty, robust
‘ and brave. A valiant man I do believe : did the cause summon,
“I fancy he would be readier with his sword too than the most.’
And so we quit our loved Jean Paul, and his simple little Baireuth
home. The lights are blown-out there, the fruit-platters swept
away, a dozen years ago, and all is dark now, Swallowed in the
long Night. Thanks to Varnhagen, that he has, though imper-
fectly, rescued any glimpse of it, one scene of it, still visible to
eyes, by the magic of pen-and-ink.
The next picture that strikes us is not a family-piece, but a
battle-piece: Deutsch-Wagram, in the hot weather of 1809; whither
Varnhagen, with a great change of place and plan, has wended,
purposing now to be a soldier, and rise by fighting the tyrannous,
French. It is a fine picture; with the author's best talent in it.
WARNHAGEN voN ENSE's MEMOIRS. 193
Deutsch-Wagram village is filled with soldiers of every uniform
and grade; in all manner of movements and employments; Arch-
duke Karl is heard ‘fantasying for an hour on the pianoforte,'
before his serious generalissimo duties begin. The Marchfeld
has its camp, the Marchfeld is one great camp of many nations,
—Germans, Hungarians, Italians, Madshars; advanced sentinels
walk steady, drill-sergeants bustle, drums beat ; Austrian generals
gallop, ‘in blue-gray coat and red breeches,'—combining ‘simpli-
city with conspicuousness.' Faint on our south-western horizon
appears the Stephans-thurm (Saint-Stephen's Steeple) of Vienna;
south, over the Danube, are seen endless French hosts defiling
towards us, with dust and glitter, along the hill-roads; one may
hope, though with misgivings, there will be work soon.
Meanwhile, in every regiment there is but one tent, a chapel,
used also for shelter to the chief officers; you, a subaltern, have
to lie on the ground, in your own dug trench, to which, if you can
contrive it, some roofing of branches and rushes may be added.
It is burning sun and dust, occasionally it is thunder-storm and
water-spouts; a volunteer, if it were not for the hope of speedy
battle, has a poor time of it: your soldiers speak little, except
unintelligible Bohemian Sclavonic ; your brother ensigns know
nothing of Xenophon, Jean Paul, of patriotism, or the higher phi-
losophies; hope only to be soon back at Prague, where are billiards
and things suitable. ‘The following days were heavy and void:
‘the great summer-heat had withered grass and grove; the wil-
“lows of the Russbach were long since leafless, in part barkless;
‘ on the endless Plain fell nowhere a shadow ; only dim dust-
‘clouds, driven-up by sudden whirlblasts, veiled for a moment
‘the glaring sky, and sprinkled all things with a hot rain of sand.
“We gave-up drilling as impossible, and crept into our earth-holes.’
It is feared, too, there will be no battle: Varnhagen has thoughts
of making-off to the fighting Duke of Brunswick-Oels, or some
other that will fight. ‘However,’ it would seem, ‘the worst trial
“was already over. After a hot, wearying, wasting day, which pro-
‘mised nothing but a morrow like it, there arose on the evening
‘ of the 30th of June, from beyond the Danube, a sound of cannon-
“ thunder; a solacing refreshment to the languid soul! A party
* of French, as we soon learned, had got across from the Lobau,
‘ by boats, to a little island named Mühleninsel, divided only by
“a small arm from our side of the river; they had then thrown a
‘ bridge over this too, with defences; our batteries at Esslingen
“were for hindering the enemy's passing there, and his nearest
‘ cannons about the Lobau made answer.' On the fourth day after,
‘Archduke John got orders to advance again as far as Marcheck; that,
WOL. IV. O
194 MISCELLANIES.
in the event of a battle on the morrow, he might act on the enemy's right
flank. With us too a resolute engagement was arranged. On the 4th of
July, in the evening, we were ordered, if there was cannonading in the
night, to remain quiet till daybreak; but at daybreak to be under arms.
Accordingly, so soon as it was dark, there began before us, on the Danube,
a violent fire of artillery; the sky glowed ever and anon with the cannon-
flashes, with the courses of bombs and grenades: for nearly two hours this
thunder-game lasted on both sides; for the French had begun their attack
almost at the same time with ours, and while we were striving to ruin their
works on the Lobau, they strove to burn Enzersdorf town, and ruin ours.
The Austrian cannon could do little against the strong works on the Lobau.
On the other hand, the enemy's attack began to tell; in his object was a
wider scope, more decisive energy; his guns were more numerous, more
effectual: in a short time Enzersdorf burst-out in flames, and our artillery
struggled without effect against their superiority of force. The region
round had been illuminated for some time with the conflagration of that
little town, when the sky grew black with heavy thunder: the rain poured
down, the flames dwindled, the artillery fired seldomer, and at length fell
silent altogether. A frightful thunder-storm, such as no one thought he
had ever seen, now raged over the broad Marchfeld, which shook with the
crashing of the thunder, and, in the pour of rain-floods and howl of winds,
was in such a roar, that even the artillery could not have been heard in it.’
On the morrow morning, in spite of Austria and the war of
elements, Napoleon, with his endless hosts, and “six-hundred
pieces of artillery’ in front of them, is across; advancing like a
conflagration; and soon the whole Marchfeld, far and wide, is in
a blaze.
*Ever stronger batteries advanced, ever larger masses of troops came
into action; the whole line blazed with fire, and moved forward and for-
ward. We, from our higher position, had hitherto looked at the evolutions
and fightings before us, as at a show; but now the battle had got nigher;
the air over us sang with cannon-balls, which were lavishly hurled at us,
and soon our batteries began to bellow in answer. The infantry got orders
to lie flat on the ground, and the enemy's balls at first did little execution;
however, as he kept incessantly advancing, the regiments erelong stood to
their arms. The Archduke Generalissimo, with his staff, came galloping
along, drew bridle in front of us; he gave his commands; looked down
into the plain, where the French still kept advancing. You saw by his
face that he heeded not danger or death, that he lived altogether in his
work; his whole bearing had got a more impressive aspect, a loftier deter-
mination, full of joyous courage, which he seemed to diffuse round him;
the soldiers looked at him with pride and trust, many voices saluted him.
He had ridden a little on towards Baumersdorf, when an adjutant came
galloping back, and cried: “Volunteers forward!” In an instant, almost
the whole company of Captain Marais stept-out as volunteers: we fancied
it was to storm the enemy's nearest battery, which was advancing through
the corn-fields in front; and so, cheering with loud shout, we hastened
down the declivity, when a second adjutant came in, with the order that
we were but to occupy the Russbach, defend the passage of it, and not to
fire till the enemy were quite close. Scattering ourselves into skirmishing
order, behind willow-trunks, and high corn, we waited with firelocks ready;
covered against cannon-balls, but hit by musket-shots and howitzer-gren-
VARNHAGEN voN ENSE's MEMOIRs. 195
ades, which the enemy sent in great numbers to our quarter. About an
hour we waited here, in the incessant roar of the artillery, which shot both
ways over our heads; with regret we soon remarked that the enemy's were
superior, at least in number, and delivered twice as many shots as ours,
which however was far better served ; the more did we admire the active
zeal and valorous endurance by which the unequal match was nevertheless
maintained.
“The Emperor Napoleon meanwhile saw, with impatience, the day
passing-on without a decisive result; he had cakeulated on striking the
blow at once, and his great accumulated force was not to have directed
itself all hitherward in vain. Rapidly he arranged his troops for storming.
Marshal Bernadotte got orders to press forward, over Atterkla, towards
Wagram; and, by taking this place, break the middle of the Austrian line.
Two deep storming columns were at the same time to advance, on the right
and left, from Baumersdorf over the Russbach; to scale the heights of the
Austrian position, and sweep away the troops there. French infantry had,
in the mean while, got up close to where we stood; we skirmishers were
called back from the Russbach, and again went into the general line: along
the whole extent of which a dreadful fire of musketry now began. This
monstrous moise of the universal, never-ceasing crack of shots, and still
more, that of the infinite jingle of iron, in handling of more than twenty-
thousand muskets all crowded together here, was the only new and entirely
strange impression that I, in these my first experiences in war, could say
I had got; all the rest was in part conformable to my preconceived notion,
in part even below it: but everything, the thunder of artillery never so
numerous, every noise I had heard or figured, was trifling, in comparison
with this continuous storm-tumult of the small-arms, as we call them,-
that weapon by which indeed our modern battles do chiefly become deadly.”
What boots it? Ensign Varnhagen and Generalissimo Arch-
duke Karl are beaten; have to retreat in the best possible order.
The sun of Wagram sets as that of Austerlitz had done ; the war
has to end in submission and marriage: and, as the great Atlantic
tide-stream rushes into every creek and alters the current there,
so for our Warnhagen too a new chapter opens,—the diplomatic
one, in Paris first of all. Varnhagen's experiences At the Court of
Napoleon, as one of his sections is headed, are extremely enter-
taining. They are tragical, comical, of mixed character; always
dramatic, and vividly given. We have a grand Schwartzenberg
Festival, and the Emperor himself, and all high persons present
in grand gala; with music, light and crowned goblets; in a wooden
pavilion, with upholstery and draperies: a rag of drapery flut-
ters the wrong way athwart some waxlight, shrivels itself up in
quick fire, kindles the other draperies, kindles the gums and
woods, and all blazes into swift-choking ruin; a beautiful Princess
Schwartzenberg, lost in the mad tumult, is found on the morrow
as ashes amid the ashes | Then also there are soirées of Imperial
notabilities; ‘the gentlemen walking about in varied talk, wherein
“you detect a certain cautiousness; the ladies all solemnly ranged
‘ in their chairs, rather silent for ladies.’ Berthier is a ‘man of
196 MISCELLANIES.
composure, not without higher capabilities. Denon, in spite of
his kind speeches, produces an ill effect on one ; and in his habit
habillé, with court-rapier and lace-cuffs, ‘looks like a dizened ape.’
Cardinal Maury in red stockings, he that was once Abbé Maury,
“pet son of the scarlet-woman,’ whispers diplomatically in your
ear, in passing, “Nous avons beaucoup de joie de vous voir ici.” But
the thing that will best of all suit us here, is the presentation to
Napoleon himself:
‘ On Sunday, the 22d of July (1810), was to be the Emperor's first
levee after that fatal occurrence of the fire; and we were told it would be
uncommonly fine and grand. In Berlin I had often accidentally seen
Napoleon, and afterwards at Vienna and Schönbrunn; but always too far
off for a right impression of him. At Prince Schwartzenberg's festival,
the look of the man, in that whirl of horrible occurrences, had effaced
itself again. I assume, therefore, that I saw him for the first time now,
when I saw him rightly, near at hand, with convenience, and a sufficient
length of time. The frequent opportunities I afterwards had, in the Tui-
leries and at Saint-Cloud (in the latter place especially, at the brilliant
theatre, open only to the Emperor and his guests, where Talma, Fleury
and La Raucourt figured), did but confirm, and, as it were, complete that
first impression.
‘We had driven to the Tuileries, and arrived through a great press of
guards and people at a chamber, of which I had already heard, under the
name of Salle des Ambassadeurs. The way in which, here in this narrow
ill-furnished pen, so many high personages stood jammed together, had
something ludicrous and insulting in it, and was indeed the material of
many a Paris jest.—The richest uniforms and court-dresses were, with
difficulty and anxiety, struggling hitherward and thitherward; intermixed
with Imperial liveries of men handing refreshments, who always, by the
near peril, suspended every motion of those about them. The talk was
loud and vivacious on all sides; people seeking acquaintances, seeking
more room, seeking better light. Seriousness of mood, and dignified con-
centration of oneself, seemed foreign to all; and what a man could not
bring with him, there was nothing here to produce. The whole matter
had a distressful, offensive air; you found yourself ill-off, and waited out
of humour. My look, however, dwelt with especial pleasure on the mem-
bers of our Austrian Embassy, whose bearing and demeanour did not dis-
credit the dignity of the old Imperial house.—Prince Schwartzenberg, in
particular, had a stately aspect; ease without negligence, gravity without
assumption, and over all an honest goodness of expression; beautifully
contrasted with the Smirking saloon-activity, the perked-up courtierism
and pretentious nullity of many here. * $6 sº
“At last the time came for going-up to audience. On the first announce-
ment of it, all rushed without order towards the door; you squeezed along,
you pushed and shoved your neighbour without ceremony. Chamberlains,
pages and guards filled the passages and ante-chamber; restless, overdone
officiousness struck you here too; the soldiers seemed the only figures that
knew how to behave in their business, and this, truly, they had learned,
not at Court, but from their drill-sergeants.
* We had formed ourselves into a half-circle in the Audience Hall, and
got placed in several crowded ranks, when the cry of “L’Empereur !”
announced the appearance of Napoleon, who entered from the lower side
VARNHAGEN voN ENSE's MEMOIRs. 107
of the apartment. In simple blue uniform, his little hat under his arm,
he walked heavily towards us. His bearing seemed to me to express the
contradiction between a will that would attain something, and a contempt
for those by whom it was to be attained. An imposing appearance he
would undoubtedly have liked to have ; and yet it seemed to him not
worth the trouble of acquiring; acquiring, I may say, for by nature he
certainly had it not. Thus there alternated in his manner a negligence
and a studiedness, which combined themselves only in unrest and dissatis-
faction. He turned first to the Austrian Embassy, which occupied one
extremity of the half-circle. The consequences of the unlucky festival
gave occasion to various questions and remarks. The Emperor sought to
appear sympathetic, he even used words of emotion ; but this tone by no
means succeeded with him, and accordingly he soon let it drop. To the
Russian Ambassador, Kurakin, who stood next, his manner had already
changed into a rougher; and in his farther progress some face or some
thought must have stung him, for he got into violent anger; broke storm-
fully out on some one or other, not of the most important there, whose
name has now escaped me; could be pacified with no answer, but demanded
always new ; rated and threatened, and held the poor man, for a good
space, in tormenting annihilation. Those who stood nearer, and were
looking at this scene, not without anxieties of their own, declared after-
wards that there was no cause at all for such fury; that the Emperor had
merely been seeking an opportunity to vent his ill-humour, and had done
so even intentionally, on this poor wight, that all the rest might be thrown
into due terror, and every opposition beforehand beaten down.
‘As he walked on, he again endeavoured to speak more mildly; but
his jarred humour still sounded through. His words were short, hasty, as
if shot from him, and on the most indifferent matters had a passionate
rapidity; nay when he wished to be kindly, it still sounded as if he were
in anger. Such a raspy, untamed voice as that of his I have hardly
heard.
“His eyes were dark, overclouded, fixed on the ground before him;
and only glanced backwards in side looks now and then, swift and sharp,
on the persons there. When he smiled, it was but the mouth and a part
of the cheeks that smiled; brow and eyes remained gloomily motionless.
If he constrained these also, as I have subsequently seen him do, his
countenance took a still more distorted expression. This union of gloom
and smile had something frightfully repulsive in it. I know not what to
think of the people who have called this countenance gracious, and its
kindliness attractive. Were not his features, though undeniably beautiful
in the plastic sense, yet hard and rigorous like marble; foreign to all trust,
incapable of any heartiness?
“What he said, whenever I heard him speaking, was always trivial both
in purport and phraseology; without spirit, without wit, without force,
nay, at times, quite poor and ridiculous. Faber, in his Notices sur l'In-
térieur de la France, has spoken expressly of his questions, those questions
which Napoleon was wont to prepare beforehand for certain persons and
occasions, to gain credit thereby for acuteness and special knowledge.
This is literally true of a visit he had made a short while before to the
great Library: all the way on the stairs, he kept calling out about that
passage in Josephus where Jesus is made mention of; and seemed to have
no other task here but that of showing-off this bit of learning; it had alto-
gether the air of a question got by heart. * * * His gift lay in
saying things sharp, or at least unpleasant; nay, when he wanted to speak
198 º MISCELLANIES.
in another sort, he often made no more of it than insignificance: thus it
befell once, as I myself witnessed in Saint-Cloud, he went through a whole
row of ladies, and repeated twenty times merely these three words, “Il
fait chaud.” * als :*:
“At this time there circulated a song on his second marriage; a piece
composed in the lowest popular tone, but which doubtless had originated
in the higher classes. Napoleon saw his power and splendour stained by
a ballad, and breathed revenge; but the police could no more detect the
author than they could the circulators. To me among others a copy,
written in a bad hand and without name, had been sent by the city-post;
I had privately with friends amused myself over the burlesque, and knew
it by heart. Altogether at the wrong time, exactly as the Emperor, gloomy
and sour of humour, was now passing me, the words and tune of that Song
came into my head; and the more I strove to drive them back, the more
decidedly they forced themselves forward; so that my imagination, excited
by the very frightfulness of the thing, was getting giddy, and seemed on
the point of breaking-forth into the deadliest offence,—when happily the
audience came to an end; and deep repeated bows accompanied the exit
of Napoleon ; who to me had addressed mone of his words, but did, as he
passed, turn on me one searching glance of the eye, with the departure of
which it seemed as if a real danger had vanished.
“The Emperor gone, all breathed free, as if disloaded from a heavy
burden. By degrees the company again grew loud, and then went over
altogether into the noisy disorder and haste which had ruled at the com-
mencement. The French courtiers, especially, took pains to redeem their
late downbent and terrified bearing by a free jocularity now ; and even in
descending the stairs there arose laughter and quizzing at the levee, the
Solemnity of which had ended here.'
Such was Warnhagen von Ense's presentation to Napoleon
Bonaparte in the Palace of the Tuileries. What Warnhagen saw
remains a possession for him and for us. The judgment he formed
on what he saw, will—depend upon circumstances. For the eye
of the intellect ‘sees in all objects what it brought with it the
means of seeing.' Napoleon is a man of the sort which Varnhagen
elsewhere calls daimonisch, a “daemonic man; 'whose meaning or
magnitude is not very measurable by men; who, with his ownness
of impulse and insight, with his mystery and strength, in a word,
with his originality (if we will understand that), reaches down into
the region of the perennial and primeval, of the inarticulate and
unspeakable ; concerning whom innumerable things may be said,
and the right thing not said for a long while, or at all. We will
leave him standing on his own basis, at present; bullying the
hapless obscure functionary there; declaring to all the world the
meteorological fact, Il fait chaud.
Varnhagen, as we see, has many things to write about; but
the thing which beyond all others he rejoices to write about, and
would gladly sacrifice all the rest to, is the memory of Rahel, his
deceased wife. Mysterious indications have of late years flitted
WARNHAGEN voN ENSE's MEMOIRS. 199
round us, concerning a certain Rahel, a kind of spiritual queen in
Germany, who seems to have lived in familiar relation to most of
the distinguished persons of that country in her time. Travellers
to Germany, now a numerous sect with us, ask you as they return
from aesthetic capitals and circles, “Do you know Rahel ?” Mar-
quis Custine, in the Revue de Paris (treating of this Book of Rahel's
Letters) says, by experience : “She was a woman as extraordinary
‘ as Madame de Staël, for her faculties of mind, for her abundance
‘ of ideas, her light of soul and her goodness of heart: she had,
‘moreover, what the author of Corinne did not pretend to, a dis-
‘dain for oratory; she did not write. The silence of minds like
“hers is a force too. With more vanity, a person so superior
“would have sought to make a public for herself: but Rahel de-
“sired only friends. She spoke to communicate the life that was
‘ in her; never did she speak to be admired.’ Goethe testifies
that she is a ‘right woman ; with the strongest feelings I have
ever seen, and the completest mastery of them.” Richter addresses
her by the title géflügelte, “winged one.' Such a Rahel might be
worth knowing. -
We find, on practical inquiry, that Rahel was of Berlin; by
birth a Jewess, in easy, not affluent circumstances; who lived,
mostly there, from 1771 to 1833. That her youth passed in studies,
struggles, disappointed passions, sicknesses, and other sufferings
and vivacities to which one of her excitable organisation was liable.
That she was deep in many spiritual provinces, in Poetry, in Art,
in Philosophy;-the first, for instance, or one of the first to re-
cognise the significance of Goethe, and teach the Schlegels to do
it. That she wrote nothing: but thought, did and spoke many
things, which attracted notice, admiration spreading wider and
wider. That in 1814 she became the wife of Varnhagen; the
loved wife, though her age was forty-three, exceeding his by some
twelve years or more, and she could never boast of beauty. That
without beauty, without wealth, foreign celebrity, or any artificial
nimbus whatsoever, she had grown in her silently progressive
way to be the most distinguished woman in Berlin; admired,
partly worshipped by all manner of high persons, from Prince
Louis of Prussia downwards; making her mother's, and then her
husband's house the centre of an altogether brilliant circle there.
This is the ‘social phenomenon of Rahel.” What farther could
be readily done to understand such a social phenomenon we have
endeavoured to do; with what success the reader shall see.
First of all, we have looked at the portrait of Rahel given in
these Volumes. It is a face full of thought, of affection and energy;
with no pretensions to beauty, yet lovable and attractive in a sin-
200 MISCELLANIES.
gular degree. The strong high brow and still eyes are full of con-
templation; the long upper lip (sign of genius, some say) protrudes
itself to fashion a curved mouth, condemnable in academies, yet
beautifully expressive of laughter and affection, of strong endur-
ance, of noble silent scorn; the whole countenance looking as
with cheerful clearness through a world of great pain and disap-
pointment; one of those faces which the lady meant when she
said: “But are not all beautiful faces ugly, then, to begin with ?”
In the next place, we have read diligently whatsoever we could
anywhere find written about Rahel; and have to remark here that
the things written about her, unlike some things written by her,
are generally easy to read. Varnhagen's account of their inter-
course; of his first young feelings towards her, his long waiting,
and final meeting of her in snowy weather under the Lindens, in
company with a lady whom he knew ; his tremulous speaking to
her there, the rapid progress of their intimacy; and so onwards,
to love, to marriage: all this is touching and beautiful; a Petrar-
can romance, and yet a reality withal. r
Finally, we have read in these Three thick Volumes of Letters,
till, in the Second thick Volume, the reading faculty unhappily
broke down, and had to skip largely thenceforth, only diving here
and there at a venture with considerable intervals | Such is the
melancholy fact. It must be urged in defence that these Volumes
are of the toughest reading; calculated, as we said, for Germany
rather than for England or us. To be written with such indis-
putable marks of ability, may of genius, of depth and sincerity,
they are the heaviest business we perhaps ever met with. The
truth is, they do not suit us at all. They are subjective letters,
what the metaphysicians call subjective, not objective ; the grand
material of them is endless depicturing of moods, sensations,
miseries, joys and lyrical conditions of the writer; no definite
picture drawn, or rarely any, of persons, transactions or events
which the writer stood amidst: a wrong material, as it seems to
us. To what end, to what end? we always ask. Not by looking
at itself, but by looking at things out of itself, and ascertaining
and ruling these, shall the mind become known. “One thing
above all others,’ says Goethe once; “I have never thought about
Thinking.' What a thrift of thinking-faculty there; thrift almost
of itself equal to a fortune, in these days: ‘habe nie ans Denken
gedacht !” But how much wastefuller still is it to feel about Feel-
ing ! One is wearied of that ; the healthy soul avoids that. Thou
shalt look outward, not inward. . Gazing inward on one's own
self—why, this can drive one mad, like the Monks of Athos, if it
last too long ! Unprofitable writing this subjective sort does seem ;
WARNHAGEN voN ENSE's MEMOIRs. 201
—at all events, to the present reviewer, no reading is so insup-
portable. Nay, we ask, might not the world be entirely deluged
by it, unless prohibited 2 Every mortal is a microcosm; to him-
self a macrocosm, or Universe large as Nature ; universal Nature
would barely hold what he could say about himself. Not a dys-
peptic tailor on any shopboard of this city but could furnish all
England, the year through, with reading about himself, about his
emotions and internal mysteries of woe and sensibility, if England
would read him. It is a course which leads nowhither; a course
which should be avoided.
Add to all this, that such self-utterance on the part of Rahel,
in these Letters, is in the highest degree vaporous, vague. Her
very mode of writing is complex, nay is careless, incondite ; with
dashes and splashes, with notes of admiration, of interrogation
(nay, both together sometimes), with involutions, abruptness,
whirls and tortuosities; so that even the grammatical meaning is
altogether burdensome to seize. And then when seized, alas, it
is as we say, of due likeness to the phraseology; a thing crude,
not articulated into propositions, but flowing out as in bursts of
interjection and exclamation. No wonder the reading faculty
breaks down And yet we do gather gold grains of precious
thought here and there; though out of large wastes of sand and
quicksand. In fine, it becomes clear, beyond doubting, both that
this Rahel was a woman of rare gifts and worth, a woman of true
genius ; and also that her genius has passed away, and left no
impress of itself there for us. These printed Volumes produce
the effect not of speech, but of multifarious, confused wind-music.
It seems to require the aid of pantomime, to tell us what it means.
But after all, we can understand how talk of that kind, in an ex-
pressive mouth, with bright deep eyes, and the vivacity of social
movement, of question and response, may have been delightful;
and moreover that, for those to whom they vividly recall such
talk, these Letters may still be delightful. Hear Marquis de
Custine a little farther:
‘You could not speak with her, a quarter of an hour, without drawing
from that fountain of light a shower of sparkles. The comic was at her
command equally with the highest degree of the sublime. The proof that
she was natural is that she understood laughter as she did grief; she took
it as a readier means of showing truth; all had its resonance in her, and
her manner of receiving the impressions which you wished to communi-
cate to her modified them in yourself: you loved her at first because she
had admirable gifts; and then, what prevailed over everything, because
she was entertaining. She was nothing for you, or she was all; and she
could be all to several at a time without exciting jealousy, so much did her
noble nature participate in the source of all life, of all clearness. When
one has lost in youth such a friend,’ &c. &c. . . . ‘It seems to me
202 MISCELLANIES.
you might define her in one word: she had the head of a sage and the
heart of an apostle, and in spite of that, she was a child and a woman as
much as any one can be. Her mind penetrated into the obscurest depths
of Nature; she was a thinker of as much and more clearness than our
Theosophist Saint-Martin, whom she comprehended and admired; and
she felt like an artist. Her perceptions were always double ; she attained
the sublimest truths by two faculties which are incompatible in ordinary
men, by feeling and by reflection. Her friends asked of themselves,
Whence came these flashes of genius which she threw from her in Con-
versation? Was it the effect of long studies? Was it the effect of sudden
inspiration ? It was the intuition granted as recompense by Heaven to
souls that are true. These martyr souls wrestle for the truth, which they
have a forecast of; they suffer for the God whom they love, and their
whole life is the school of eternity.”
This enthusiastic testimony of the clever sentimental Marquis
is not at all incredible to us, in its way: yet from these Letters
we have nothing whatever to produce that were adequate to make
it good. As was said already, it is not to be made good by ex-
cerpts and written documents; its proof rests in the memory of
living witnesses. Meanwhile, from these same wastes of Sand,
and even of quicksand, dangerous to linger in, we will try to
gather a few grains the most like gold, that it may be guessed, by
the charitable, whether or not a Pactolus once flowed there :
* If there be miracles, they are those that are in our own breast; what
we do not know, we call by that name. How astonished, almost how
ashamed are we, when the inspired moment comes, and we get to know
them ''
‘One is late in learning to lie: and late in learning to speak the truth.”
—‘I cannot, because I cannot, lie. Fancy not that I take credit for it: I
cannot, just as one cannot play upon the flute.’
“In the meanest hut is a romance, if you knew the hearts there.'
“So long as we do not take even the injustice which is done us, and
which forces the burning tears from us; so long as we do not take even
this for just and right, we are in the thickest darkness, without dawn.'
‘Manure with despair, but let it be genuine; and you will have a
noble harvest.’
“True misery is ashamed of itself; hides itself, and does not complain.
You may know it by that.'
‘What a commonplace man ' If he did not live in the same time with
us, no mortal would mention him.’
“Have you remarked that Homer, whenever he speaks of the water, is
always great; as Goethe is, when he speaks of the stars?”
“If one were to say, “You think it easy to be original: but no, it is diffi-
cult, it costs a whole life of labour and exertion,”—you would think him
mad, and ask no more questions of him. And yet his opinion would be
altogether true, and plain enough withal. Original, I grant, every man
might be, and must be, if men did not almost always admit mere undi-
gested hearsays into their head, and fling them out again undigested.
Whoever honestly questions himself, and faithfully answers, is busied con-
tinually with all that presents itself in life; and is incessantly inventing,
* Revue de Paris, Novembre 1837.
WARNBAGEN Von ENSE's MEMOIRs. 203
had the thing been invented never so long before. Honesty belongs as a
first condition to good thinking; and there are almost as few absolute
dunces as geniuses. Genuine dunces would always be original; but there
are none of them genuine: they have almost always understanding enough
to be dishonest.’
“He (the blockhead) tumbled out on me his definition of genius: the
trivial old distinctions of intellect and heart; as if there ever was, or could
be, a great intellect with a mean heart!’
“Goethe? When I think of him, tears come into my eyes: all other men
I love with my own strength; he teaches me to love with his. My Poet!'
* Slave-trade, war, marriage, working-classes:–and they are astonished,
and keep clouting, and remending 2"
“The whole world is, properly speaking, a tragic embarras.”
‘. . . I here, Rahel the Jewess, feel that I am as unique as the
greatest appearance in this earth. The greatest artist, philosopher, or poet,
is not above me. We are of the same element: in the same rank, and
stand together. Whichever would exclude the other, excludes only him-
self. But to me it was appointed not to write or act, but to live: I lay in
embryo till my century; and then was, in outward respects, so flung away.
—It is for this reason that I tell you. But pain, as I know it, is a life too:
and I think with myself, I am one of those figures which Humanity was
fated to evolve, and then never to use more, never to have more : me no one
can comfort.”—“Why not be beside oneself, dear friend? There are beau-
tiful parentheses in life, which belong neither to us nor to others: beauti-
ful I name them, because they give us a freedom we could not get by sound
sense. Who would volunteer to have a nervous fever? And yet it may
save one's life. I love rage; I use it, and patronise it.”—“Be not alarmed;
I am commonly calmer. But when I write to a friend's heart, it comes to
pass that the sultry laden horizon of my soul breaks out in lightning.
Heavenly men love lightning.’
“To Varnhagen . . . One thing I must write to thee; what I thought
of last night in bed, and for the first time in my life. That I, as a relative
and pupil of Shakspeare, have, from my childhood upwards, occupied my-
Self much with death, thou mayest believe. Butenever did my own death
affect me; nay, I did not even think of this fact, that I was not affected by
it. Now, last might there was something I had to write; I said, Warnhagen
must know this thing, if he is to think of me after I am dead. And it
seemed to me as if I must die; as if my heart were flitting away over this
earth, and I must follow it; and my death gave me pity: for never before,
as I now saw, had I thought that it would give anybody pity: of thee I knew
it would do so, and yet it was the first time in my life I had seen this, or
known that I had never seen it. In such solitude have I lived: compre-
hend it! I thought, When I am dead, then first will Warnhagen know what
sufferings I had; and all his lamenting will be in vain; the figure of me
meets him again, through all eternity, no more; swept away am I then, as
our poor Prince Louis is. And no one can be kind to me then; with the
strongest will, with the effort of despair, no one; and this thought of thee
about me was what at last affected me. I must write of this, though it afflict
thee never so.” © e
“To Rose, a younger sister, on her marriage in Amsterdam.—Paris,
1801. . . . Since thy last letter I am sore downcast. Gone art thou!
No Rose comes stepping in to me with true foot and heart, who knows me
altogether, knows all my sorrows altogether. When I am sick of body or
soul, alone, alone, thou comest not to me any more; thy room empty, quite
empty, forever empty. Thou art away, to try thy fortune. O Heaven and
204 MISCELLANIES.
to me not even trying is permitted. Am not I in luck! The garden in the
Lindenstrasse, where we used to be with Hanne and Feu-was it not beau-
tiful?—I will call it Rose now; with Hanne and Hanse will I go often
thither, and none shall know of it. Dost thou recollect that night when I
was to set out with Fink, the time before last? How thou hadst to sleep up-
stairs, and then to stay with me? O my sister, I might be as ill again—
though not for that cause: and thou too, what may not lie before thee!
But no, thy name is Rose; thou hast blue eyes, and a far other life than I
with my stars and black ones. * * * Salute Mamma a million times;
tell her I congratulate her from the heart; the more so, as I can never give
her such a pleasure | God willed it not. But I, in her place, would have
great pity for a child so circumstanced. Yet let her not lament for me. I
know all her goodness, and thank her with my soul. Tell her I have the
fate of nations, and of the greatest men, before my eyes here: they too go
tumbling even so on the great sea of Existence, mounting, sinking, swal-
lowed up. From of old all men have seemed to me like spring blossoms,
which the wind blows off and whirls; none knows where they fall, and the
fewest come to fruit.”
Poor Rahel ! The Frenchman said above, she was an artist
and apostle, yet had not ceased to be a child and woman. But
we must stop short. One other little scene, a scene from her
death-bed by Varnhagen, must end the tragedy:
* . . . . She said to me one morning, after a dreadful might, with the
penetrating tone of that lovely voice of hers : “Oh, I am still happy; I am
God's creature still ; He knows of me; I shall come to see how it was good
and needful for me to suffer: of a surety I had something to learn by it.
And am I not already happy in this trust, and in all the love that I feel and
meet with ?”
“In this manner she spoke, one day, among other things, with joyful
heartiness, of a dream which always from childhood she had remembered
and taken comfort from. “In my seventh year,” said she, “I dreamt that
I saw God quite near me; he stood expanded above me, and his mantle
was the whole sky; on a corner of this mantle I had leave to rest, and lay
there in peaceable felicity till I awoke. Ever since, through my whole life,
this dream has returned on me, and in the worst times was present also in
my waking moments, and a heavenly comfort to me. I had leave to throw
myself at God's feet, on a corner of his mantle, and he screened me from
all sorrow there: He permitted it.” + sk * The following words,
which I felt called to write down exactly as she spoke them on the 2d of
March, are also remarkable: “What a history !” cried she, with deep emo-
tion: “A fugitive from Egypt and Palestine am I here; and find help, love
and kind care among you. To thee, dear August, was I sent by this guiding
of God, and thou to me; from afar, from the old times of Jacob and the
Patriarchs! With a sacred joy I think of this my origin, of all this wide
web of pre-arrangement. How the oldest remembrances of mankind are
united with the newest reality of things, and the most distant times and
places are brought together. What, for so long a period of my life, I con-
sidered as the worst ignominy, the Sorest sorrow and misfortune, that I
was born a Jewess, this I would not part with now for any price. Will it
not be even so with these pains of sickness? Shall I not, one day, mount
joyfully aloft on them too; feel that I could not want them for any price?
O August, this is just, this is true; we will try to go on thus !” Thereupon
she said, with many tears, “Dear August, my heart is refreshed to its in-
most: I have thought of Jesus, and wept over his sorrows: I have felt, for
VARNHAGEN voN ENSE's MEMolRS. 205
the first time felt, that he is my brother. And Mary, what must not she
have suffered . She saw her beloved Son in agony, and did not sink; she
stood at the Cross. That I could not have done; I am not strong enough
for that. Forgive me, God, I confess how weak I am.” ” >}; :};
“At nightfall, on the 6th of March, Rahel felt herself easier than for
long before, and expressed an irresistible desire to be new dressed. As
she could not be persuaded from it, this was done, though with the greatest
precaution. She herself was busily helpful in it, and signified great con-
tentment that she had got it accomplished. She felt so well she expected
to sleep. She wished me good-night, and bade me also go and sleep. Even
the maid, Dora, was to go and sleep; however, she did not.
“It might be about midnight, and I was still awake, when Dora called
me: “I was to come, she was much worse.” Instead of sleep, Rahel had
found only suffering, one distress added to another; and now all had com-
bined into decided spasm of the breast. I found her in a state little short
of that she had passed six days ago. The medicines left for such an occur-
rence (regarded as possible, not probable) were tried; but, this time, with
little effect. The frightful struggle continued; and the beloved sufferer,
writhing in Dora's arms, cried, several times, “This pressure against her
breast was not to be borne, was crushing her heart out:” the breathing,
too, was painfully difficult. She complained that “it was getting into her
head now, that she felt like a cloud there;” she leaned back with that. A
deceptive hope of some alleviation gleamed on us for a moment, and then
went out forever; the eyes were dimmed, the mouth distorted, the limbs
lamed ! In this state the Doctors found her; their remedies were all boot-
less. An unconscious hour and half, during which the breast still occa-
sionally struggled in spasmodic efforts, and this noble life breathed-out
its last. The sight I saw then, while kneeling almost lifeless at her bed,
stamped itself glowing forever into my heart.”
So died Rahel Warnllagen von Ense, born Levin, a singular bio-
graphic phenomenon of this century; a woman of genius, of true
depth and worth; whose secluded life, as one cannot but see, had
in it a greatness far beyond what has many times fixed the public
admiration of the whole world; a woman equal to the highest
thoughts of her century; in whom it was not arrogance, we do be-
lieve, but a just self-consciousness, to feel that ‘the highest philo-
“Sopher, or poet, or artist was not above her, but of a like element
‘ and rank with her.' That such a woman should have lived un-
known and, as it were, silent to the world, is peculiar in this time.
We say not that she was equal to De Staël, nor the contrary;
neither that she might have written De Staël's books, nor even
that she might not have written far better books. She has ideas
unequalled in De Staël; a sincerity, a pure tenderness and genuine-
ness which that celebrated person had not, or had lost. But what
then? The subjunctive, the optative are vague moods: there is
no tense one can found on but the preterite of the indicative.
Enough for us, Rahel did not write. She sat imprisoned, or it
might be sheltered and fosteringly embowered, in those circum-
stances of hers; she ‘was not appointed to write or to act, but
206 MISCELLANIES,
only to live.” Call her not unhappy on that account, call her not
useless; nay, perhaps, call her happier and usefuller. Blessed
are the humble, are they that are not known. It is written, “Seek-
est thou great things, seek them not:' live where thou art, only
live wisely, live diligently. Rahel's life was not an idle one for
herself or for others: how many souls may the “sparkles shower-
ing from that light-fountain' have kindled and illuminated; whose
new virtue goes on propagating itself, increasing itself, under in-
calculable combinations, and will be found in far places, after
many days! She left no stamp of herself on paper; but in other
ways, doubt it not, the virtue of her working in this world will
survive all paper. For the working of the good and brave, seen
or unseen, endures literally forever, and cannot die. Is a thing
nothing because the Morning Papers have not mentioned it? Or
can a nothing be made something, by never so much babbling of
it there? Far better, probably, that no Morning or Evening Paper
mentioned it; that the right hand knew not what the left was
doing ! Rahel might have written books, celebrated books. And
yet, what of books? Hast thou not already a Bible to write, and
publish in print that is eternal; namely, a Life to lead 2 Silence
too is great: there should be great silent ones too.
Beautiful it is to see and understand that no worth, known or
unknown, can die even in this earth. The work an unknown good
man has done is like a vein of water flowing hidden underground,
secretly making the ground green ; it flows and flows, it joins it-
self with other veins and veinlets; one day, it will start forth as a
visible perennial well. Ten dumb centuries had made the speak-
ing Dante; a well he of many veinlets. William Burmes, or Burns,
was a poor peasant; could not prosper in his “seven acres of nur-
sery-ground,’ nor any enterprise of trade and toil; had to ‘thole
a factor's smash,' and read attorney-letters, in his poor hut, ‘which
threw us all into tears: a man of no money-capital at all, of no
account at all : yet a brave man, a wise and just, in evil fortune
faithful, unconquerable to the death. And there wept withal
among the others a boy named Robert, with a heart of melting
pity, of greatness and fiery wrath; and his voice, fashioned here
by this poor father, does it not already reach, like a great elegy,
like a stern prophecy, to the ends of the world? ‘Let me make
the songs, and you shall make the laws ' What chancellor, king,
senator, begirt with never such sumptuosity, dyed velvet, blaring
and celebrity, could you have named in England that was so mo-
mentous as that William Burns? Courage —
We take leave of Warnhagen with true goodwill, and heartily
thank him for the pleasure and instruction he has given us.
PETITION ON THE COPYRIGHT BILL.1
[1839.]
To the Honourable the Commons of England in Parliament as-
sembled, the Petition of Thomas Carlyle, a Writer of Books,
Humbly showeth,
That your petitioner has written certain books, being incited
thereto by various innocent or laudable considerations, chiefly by
the thought that said books might in the end be found to be
worth something.
That your petitioner had not the happiness to receive from
Mr. Thomas Tegg, or any Publisher, Republisher, Printer, Book-
seller, Bookbuyer, or other the like man or body of men, any
encouragement or countenance in writing of said books, or to
discern any chance of receiving such ; but wrote them by effort
of his own and the favour of Heaven.
That all useful labour is worthy of recompense; that all honest
labour is worthy of the chance of recompense; that the giving and
assuring to each man what recompense his labour has actually
merited, may be said to be the business of all Legislation, Polity,
Government and Social Arrangement whatsoever among men;–a
business indispensable to attempt, impossible to accomplish ac-
curately, difficult to accomplish without inaccuracies that become
enormous, insupportable, and the parent of Social Confusions
which never altogether end.
That your petitioner does not undertake to say what recom-
pense in money this labour of his may deserve; whether it de-
serves any recompense in money, or whether money in any quan-
tity could hire him to do the like.
That this his labour has found hitherto, in money or money's
worth, small recompense or none ; that he is by no means sure of
its ever finding recompense, but thinks that, if so, it will be at a
distant time, when he, the labourer, will probably no longer be in
need of money, and those dear to him will still be in need of it.
That the law does at least protect all persons in selling the pro-
duction of their labour at what they can get for it, in all market-
1 The ExAMINER, April 7, 1839.
208 MISCELLANIES.
places, to all lengths of time. Much more than this the law does
to many, but so much it does to all, and less than this to none.
That your petitioner cannot discover himself to have done un-
lawfully in this his said labour of writing books, or to have become
criminal, or have forfeited the law's protection thereby. Contrari-
wise your petitioner believes firmly that he is innocent in said
labour; that if he be found in the long-run to have written a
genuine enduring book, his merit therein, and desert towards
England and English and other men, will be considerable, not
easily estimable in money; that on the other hand, if his book
proves false and ephemeral, he and it will be abolished and for-
gotten, and no harm done.
That, in this manner, your petitioner plays no unfair game
against the world; his stake being life itself, so to speak (for the
penalty is death by starvation), and the world's stake nothing till
once it see the dice thrown; so that in any case the world cannot
lose.
That in the happy and long-doubtful event of the game's going
in his favour, your petitioner submits that the small winnings
thereof do belong to him or his, and that no other mortal has
justly either part or lot in them at all, now, henceforth, or for-
€VéY".
May it therefore please your Honourable House to protect him
in said happy and long-doubtful event; and (by passing your Copy-
right Bill) forbid all Thomas Teggs and other extraneous persons,
entirely unconcerned in this adventure of his, to steal from him
his small winnings, for a space of sixty years at shortest. After
sixty years, unless your Honourable House provide otherwise, they
may begin to steal.
And your petitioner will ever pray.
THOMAS CARLYLE.
209.
ON THE SINKING OF THE WENGEUR.1
[1839.]
TO OLIVER YORKE, ESQ.
DEAR YoFKE,-Shall we now overhaul that story of the sinking of
the Vengeur, a little; and let a discerning public judge of the same?
I will endeavour to begin at the beginning, and not to end till I
have got to some conclusion. As many readers are probably in
the dark, and young persons may not have so much as heard of
the Vengeur, we had perhaps better take-up the matter ab ovo, and
study to carry uninstructed mankind comfortably along with us
ad mala.
I find, therefore, worthy Yorke, in searching through old files
of newspapers, and other musty articles, as I have been obliged to
do, that on the evening of the 10th of June 1794, a brilliant audi-
ence was, as often happens, assembled at the Opera House here in
London. Radiance of various kinds, and melody of fiddlestrings
and windpipes, cartilaginous or metallic, was filling all the place,
—when an unknown individual entered with a wet Newspaper in
his pocket, and tidings that Lord Howe and the English fleet had
come-up with Villaret-Joyeuse and the French, off the coast of
Brest, and gained a signal victory over him.” The agitation
spread from bench to bench, from box to box; so that the wet
Newspaper had finally to be read from the stage, and all the mu-
sical instruments, human and other, had to strike-up Rule Bri-
tannia, the brilliant audience all standing, and such of them as
had talent joining in chorus, -before the usual squallacci melody,
natural to the place, could be allowed to proceed again. This was
the first intimation men had of Howe's victory of the 1st of June ;
on the following evening London was illuminated: the Gazette
had been published,—some six ships taken, and a seventh, named
Vengeur, which had been sunk: a very glorious victory: and the
joy of people's minds was considerable.
For the remainder of that month of June 1794, and over into
July, the Newspapers enliven themselves with the usual succes-
* FRASER'S MAGAZINE, No. 115. * Morning Chronicle of June 1794.
VOL. IV. P
210 MISCEſ.I.ANIES.
sion of despatches, private narratives, anecdotes, commentaries
and rectifications; unfolding gradually, as their way is, how the
matter has actually passed; till each reader may form some toler-
ably complete image of it, till each at least has had enough of it;
and the glorious victory submerges in the general flood, giving
place to other glories. Of the Wengeur that sank, there want not
anecdotes, though they are not of a very prominent kind. The
Vengeur, it seems, was engaged with the Brunswick; the Bruns-
wick had stuck close to her, and the fight was very hot; indeed,
the two ships were hooked together by the Brunswick's anchors,
and stuck so till the Vengeur had got enough ; but the anchors at
last gave way, and the Brunswick, herself much disabled, drifted
to leeward of the enemy's flying ships, and had to run before the
wind, and so escape them. The Vengeur, entirely powerless, was
taken possession of by the Alfred, by the Culloden, or by both of
them together; and sank after not many minutes. All this is in
the English Newspapers; this, so far as we are concerned, is the
English version of Howe's victory, in which the sinking Vengeur
is noticeable, but plays no pre-eminently distinguished part.
The same English Newspapers publish, as they receive them,
generally without any commentary whatever, the successive French
versions of the matter; the same that can now be read more con-
veniently, in their original language, in the Choia, des Rapports,
vol. xiv., and elsewhere. The French Convention was now sitting,
in its Reign of Terror, fighting for life and death, with all weapons,
against all men. The French Convention had of course to give
its own version of this matter, the best it could. Barrère was the
man to do that. On the 15th of June, accordingly, Barrère reports
that it is a glorious victory for France ; that the fight, indeed, was
sharp, and not unattended with loss, the ennemis du genre humain
being acharnés against us; but that, nevertheless, these gallant
French war-ships did so shatter and astonish the enemy on this
1st of June and the preceding days, that the enemy shore-off; and,
on the morrow, our invaluable American cargo of naval stores,
safely stowed in the fleet of transport-ships, got safe through ;-
which latter statement is a fact, the transport-ships having actu-
ally escaped unmolested; they sailed over the very place of battle,
saw the wreck of burnt and shattered things, still tumbling on the
waters, and knew that a battle had been. By degrees, however,
it becomes impossible to conceal that the glorious victory for
France has yielded six captured ships of war to the English, and
one to the briny maw of Ocean; that, in short, the glorious victory
has been what in unofficial language is called a sheer defeat.
Whereupon, after some recriminating and flourishing from Jean-
SINKING OF THE WENGEUR. 211
Bon Saint-André and others, how the captain of the Jacobin be-
haved ill, and various men and things behaved ill, conspiring to
tarnish the laurels of the Republic,+Barrère adroitly takes a new
tack; will show that if we French did not beat, we did better, and
are a spectacle for the very gods. Fixing on the sunk Vengeur,
Barrère publishes his famed Rapport du 21 Messidor (9th July
1794), setting forth how Republican valour, conquered by unjust
fortune, did nevertheless in dying earn a glory that will never die,
but flame there forever, as a symbol and prophecy of victories with-
out end ; how the Wengeur, in short, being entirely disabled, and
incapable of commonplace flight, flew desperate, and refused to
strike, though sinking ; how the enemies fired on her, but she re-
turned their fire, shot aloft all her tricolor streamers, shouted Vive
la République; nay, fired the guns of her upper deck, when the
lower decks were already sunk; and so, in this mad whirlwind of
fire and shouting, and invincible despair, went down into the
ocean-depths; Vive la République, and a universal volley from the
upper deck, being the last sounds she made. This Report too is
translated accurately, in the Morning Chronicle for July 26, 1794;
and published without the smallest commentary there. The Wen-
geur with all her crew being down in the depths of ocean, it is not
of course they that can vouch for this heroic feat ; neither is it the
other French, who had all fled by that time : no, the testimony is
still more indubitable, that of our enemies themselves ; it is ‘from
the English Newspapers' that Barrère professes to have gathered
these heart-inspiring details, the candour even of these ennemis
acharnés could not conceal them,--which, therefore, let all French-
men believe as a degree truer than truth itself, and rejoice in ac-
cordingly. To all this, as was said, the English Newspapers seem
to have made no reply whatever.
The French, justly proud of so heroic a feat, a degree truer
than truth itself, did make, and have ever since continued to
make, what demonstration was fit. Convention decree, Conven-
tion decrees were solemnly passed about this suicidal Wengeur;
the deathless suicidal Wengeur is written deep in innumerable
French songs and psalmodyings; a wooden Model of the Vengeur,
solemnly consecrated in the Pantheon of Great Men, beckoned
figuratively from its peg, ‘Aua grands hommes, la patrie reconnais-
Santé !"—and hangs there, or in the Musée Naval, beckoning, I be-
lieve, at this hour. In an age of miracles, such as the Reign of
Terror, one knows not at first view what is incredible : such loud
universal proclamation, and the silence of the English (little in-
terested, indeed, to deny), seem to have produced an almost uni-
versal belief both in France and here. Doubts, I now find, were
212 MISCELLANIES.
more than once started by sceptics even among the French,-in
a suitable low tone; but the “solemn Convention decrees, the
wooden ‘Modèle du Vengeur' hanging visible there, the “glory of
France 2' Such doubts were instantly blown away again; and the
heroic feat, like a mirror-shadow wiped, not wiped out, remained
only the clearer for them.
Very many years ago, in some worthless English History of
the French Revolution, the first that had come in my way, I read
this incident; coldly recorded, without controversy, without favour
or feud ; and, naturally enough, it burnt itself indelibly into the
boyish imagination; and indeed is, with the murder of the Prin-
cess de Lamballe, all that I now remember of that same worthless
English History. Coming afterwards to write of the French Revo-
lution myself; finding this story so solemnly authenticated, and
not knowing that, in its intrinsic character, it had ever been so
much as questioned, I wrote it down nothing doubting; as other
English writers had done; the fruit of which, happily now got to
maturity so far as I am concerned, you are here to see ripen itself,
by the following stages. Take first the corpus delicti :
1. Eaſtract from Carlyle’s ‘French Revolution.”
“But how is it, then, with that Vengeur Ship, she neither strikes nor
makes-off? She is lamed, she cannot make-off; strike she will not. Fire
rakes her fore and aft from victorious enemies; the Wengeur is sinking.
Strong are ye, Tyrants of the sea; yet we also, are we weak? Lo! all flags,
streamers, jacks, every rag of tricolor that will yet run on rope, fly rustling
aloft: the whole crew crowds to the upper deck; and with universal soul-
maddening yell, shouts Vive la République, sinking, sinking. She stag-
gers, she lurches, her last drunk whirl; Ocean yawns abysmal: down rushes
the Vengeur, carrying Vive la République along with her, unconquerable,
into Eternity.’
2. Letter from Rear-Admiral Griffiths, in the ‘Sun' Newspaper of
— Nov. 1838.
‘Mr. Editor, – Since the period of Lord Howe's victory, on Ist June
1794, the story of the Vengeur French 74-gun ship going down with colours
flying, and her crew crying Vive la République, Vive la Liberté, &c., and
the further absurdity that they continued firing the maindeck guns after
her lower deck was immersed, has been declared, and has recently been re-
asserted by a French author. It originated, no doubt, on the part of the
French, in political and exciting motives, precisely as Bonaparte caused
his victory at Trafalgar to be promulgated through France. While these
reports and confident assertions were confined to our neighbours, it seemed
little worth the while to contradict it. But now, when two English authors
of celebrity, Mr. Alison, in his History of Europe during the French Revo-
lution, and Mr. Carlyle, in his similar work, give it the confirmation of
English authority, I consider it right thus to declare that the whole story
1 Vol. ii. 313; London, 1857.
SINKING OF THE WENGEUR. 213
is a ridiculous piece of nonsense. At the time the Wengeur sunk, the action
had ceased some time. The French fleet were making-off before the wind;
and Captain Renaudin and his son had been nearly half-an-hour prisoners
on board H.M.S. Culloden, of which ship I was the fourth lieutenant; and
about 127 of the crew were also prisoners, either on board the Culloden or
in her boats, besides I believe 100 in the Alfred's, and some 40 in the hired
cutter, commanded by Lieutenant (the late Rear-Admiral) Winne. The
Wengeur was taken possession of by the boats of the Culloden, Lieutenant
Rotheram, and the Alfred, Lieutenant Deschamps; and Captain Renaudin
and myself, who were by Captain Schomberg's desire at lunch in his cabin,
hearing the cries of distress, ran to the starboard quarter gallery, and thence
witnessed the melancholy scene. Never were men in distress more ready
to gave themselves.
* A. J. GRIFFITHS.”
This Letter, which appeared in the Sun Newspaper early in
November last, was copied into most of the other Newspapers in
the following days; I take it from the Ea:aminer of next Sunday
(18th Nov. 1838). The result seemed to be general uncertainty.
On me, who had not the honour at that time to know Admiral
Griffiths even by name, still less by character, the main impression -
his letter left was that this affair was singular, doubtful; that it
would require to be farther examined by the earliest opportunity.
Not long after, a friend of his, who took an interest in it, and was
known to friends of mine, transmitted me through them the fol-
lowing new Document, which it appeared had been written earlier,
though without a view to publication:
3. Letter from Rear-Admiral Griffiths to a private Friend (penes me).
‘Since you request it, I send you the state of the actual fact as respects
the sinking of the Wengeur after the action of the 1st June 1794.
“I was fourth lieutenant in the Culloden in that action. Mr. Carlyle, in
his History of the French Revolution, vol. iii. p. 335, gives, in his own pe-
culiar style, the same account of it that was published to the world under
the influence of the French Government, for political and exciting purposes;
and which has recently been reiterated by a French author. Mr. Carlyle,
in adopting these authorities, has given English testimony to the farce;
farce I call it, for, with the exception of the Wengeur “sinking,” there is
not one word of fact in the narration. I will first review it in detail:—
* “The Wengeur neither strikes nor makes-off.” She did both. She
made-off as well as her disabled state admitted, and was actually taken in
tow by a French eighteen-gun brig; which cast her off, on the Culloden,
Alfred and two or three others, approaching to take possession of her.
“Fire rakes her fore and aft from victorious enemies.” Wicked indeed
would it have been to have fired into her, a sinking ship with colours down;
and I can positively assert not a gun was fired at her for an hour before she
was taken possession of “The Wengeur is sinking.” True. “Lo! all flags,
streamers, jacks, every rag of tricolor that will yet run on rope fly rustling
aloft.” Not onemaststanding, not on E rope on which to hoist or display a bit
of tricolor, not one flag, or streamer, or ensign displayed; her colours down;
and, for more than half an hour before she sunk, Captain Renaudin, and his
214 MISCELLANIES.
son, &c. prisoners on board the Culloden,_on which I will by and by more
especially particularise. “The whole crew crowds to the upper deck; and,
with universal soul-maddening yell, shouts Vive la République !” Beyond
the fact of the crew (except the wounded) being on the upper deck, not
even the slightest, the most trivial semblance of truth. Not one shout be-
yond that of horror and despair. At the moment of her sinking, we had on
board the Culloden, and in our boats then at the wreck, 127 of her crew,
including the captain. The Alfred had many; I believe about 100: Lieu-
tenant Winne, in command of a hired cutter, a number; I think, 49. “Down
rushes the Wengeur, carrying Vive la République along with her, uncon-
querable, into Eternity.” Bah! answered above.
‘I have thus reviewed Mr. Carlyle's statement; I now add the particu-
lars of the fact. The Wengeur totally dismasted, going off before the wind,
under her sprit-sail, &c.; five sail of the line come up with her, the Cullo-
den and Alfred two of these. Her colours down, Lieutenant Richard Des-
champs, first of the Alfred, I believe, took possession of her. The next
boat on board was the Culloden's, Lieut. Rotheram, who died one of the
Captains of Greenwich Hospital. Deschamps went up the side. Rotheram
got-in at the lower-deck port, saw that the ship was sinking, and went
thence to the quarter-deck. I am not positive which boat got first on board.
Rotheram returned with Captain Renaudin, his son, and one man; and
reported her state, whereupon other boats were sent. The Wengeur's main-
yard was lying across her decks; Rotheram, &c. descended from its lar-
board yard-arm by the yard-tackle pendant; and I personally heard him
report to Captain Schomberg the Wengeur's state, “That he could not place
a two-feet rule in any direction, he thought, that would not touch two shot-
holes.” Except the Purser, Mr. Oliver, who was engaged in arranging the
prisoners in classes &c. as they came on board, I was the only officer who
knew any French, and mine very so-so. Captain Schomberg said: “You
understand French; take Renaudin and his son into the cabin, and divert
his mind from attention to his ship while sinking.” Having been in pre-
sence of the French fleet for three days prior to the action, the accustomed
cooking had not gone on; the galley-fire was little lighted. But the Cap-
tain, foreseeing, had a cold mutton-pie standing by; this, with wine, was
ordered for us; and I was actually eating it with Renaudin, a prisoner in
Captain Schomberg's cabin, when a bustle on deck made us start up; we
ran to the starboard quarter-gallery, and saw the Wengeur, then say a stone's-
throw from us, sink. These are the facts.
‘Sept. 17, 1838. A. J. GRIFFITHS.
‘I have said, I am not certain which boat took possession; and I gave
it to the Alfred, because there arises so much silly squabbling on these
trifles. But from Rotheram taking the Captain, it seems probable the
Culloden's boat was first. A matter, however, of no moment.’
Such a Document as this was not of a sort to be left dormant:
doubt could not sleep on it; doubt, unless effectually contradicted,
had no refuge but to hasten to denial. I immediately did two
things: I applied to Admiral Griffiths for leave to publish this
new letter, or such portions of it as might seem needful; and at
the same time I addressed mysekf to a distinguished French friend,
well acquainted with these matters, more zealously concerned in
them than almost any other living man, and hitherto an undoubt-
SINKING OF THE VENGEUR. 215
ing believer in the history of the Vengeur. This was my Letter to
him; marked here as Document No. 4 :
4. Letter of T. Carlyle to Monsieur —.
‘My dear , —Enclosed herewith are copies of Admiral Grif-
fiths's two Letters concerning the Wengeur, on which we communicated
lately. You undertook the French side of the business; you are become,
so to speak, advocate of France in this matter; as I for my share am put
into the post of advocate for England. In the interest of all men, so far as
that can be concerned here, the truth ought to be known, and recognised
by all.
* Having read the story in some English book in boyhood, naturally
with indelible impression of it; reading the same afterwards with all detail
in the Choix des Rapports, and elsewhere; and finding it everywhere acted
upon as authentic, and nowhere called in question, I wrote it down in my
Book with due energy and sympathy, as a fact forever memorable. But
now, I am bound to say, the Rear-Admiral has altogether altered the foot-
ing it stands on ; and except other evidence than Iyet have, or know where
to procure, be adduced, I must give-up the business as a cunningly devised
fable, and in my next edition contradict it with as much energy as I as-
serted it. You know with how much reluctance that will be; for what man,
indeed, would not wish to believe it?
“But what can I do? Barrère's Rapport does not even profess to be
grounded on any evidence except what “the English Newspapers” afforded
him. I have looked into various “English Newspapers;” the Morning
Chronicle, the Opposition or “Jacobin” journal of that period, I have
examined minutely, from the beginning of June to the end of July 1794,
through all the stages of the business; and found there no trace or hint
of what Barrère asserts: I do not think there is any hint of it discover-
able in any English Newspaper of those weeks. What Barrère's own au-
thority was worth in such cases, we all know. On the other hand, here is
an eye-witness, a man of grave years, of dignified rank, a man of perfect
respectability, who in the very style of these Letters of his has an air of
artlessness, of blunt sincerity and veracity, the characteristic of a sailor.
There is no motive that could induce him to deny such a fact; on the con-
trary, the more heroic one's enemy, the greater one's own heroism. In-
deed, I may say generally of England, at this day, that there could not be
anywhere a wish to disbelieve such a thing of an enemy recognised as
brave among the bravest, but rather a wish, for manhood's sake, to believe
it, if possible.
* What I should like therefore is, that these circumstances were, with
the widest publicity of Journals or otherwise, to be set openly before the
Erench Nation, and the question thereupon put: Have you any counter-
evidence? If you have any, produce it; let us weigh it. If you have none,
then let us cease to believe this too widely credited narration; let us con-
sider it henceforth as a clever fable got-up for a great occasion; and that
the real Wengeur simply fought well, and sank precisely as another ship
would have done. The French, I should hope, have accomplished too
many true marvels in the way of war, to have need of false marvels. At
any rate, error, untruth, as to what matter soever, never profited any
nation, man, or thing.
* If any of your reputable Journalists, if any honest man, will publish,
in your Newspapers or otherwise, an Article on these data, and get us
either evidence or no evidence, it will throw light on the matter. I have
2L6 MISCELLANIES,
not yet Admiral Griffiths's permission to print this second Letter (though
I have little doubt to get it very soon); but the first is already published,
and contains all the main facts. My commentary on them, and position
towards them, is substantially given above.
* Do what is fit; and let the truth be known. -
* Yours always,
* T. CARLYLE.’
From Admiral Griffiths I received, without delay, the requisite
permission; and this under terms and restrictions, which only did
him farther honour, and confirmed, if there had been need of that,
one's conviction of his perfect candour as a witness on the matter.
His Letter to me is too remarkable not to be inserted here; as il-
lustrative of this controversy; nay, especially if we consider the
curious appendix he has added, as conclusive of it. I have not
his express permission to print this; but will venture to believe
that I have a certain implied discretionary permission, which,
without my troubling him with farther applications, may suffice :
5. Letter of Rear-Admiral Griffiths to T. Carlyle.
‘Sir, I have received a Letter from — —; of which follows an
extract :
sk sk :k #: *
“In reply to the above, I have to say that you are at full liberty to use
the account I sent you, or that published in the Sun Paper, and copied
thence into the Globe, Morning Post, John Bull, &c.; and to quote me as
your authority. But as I have no desire for controversy, or to be made
unnecessarily conspicuous, I do not assent to its being published in any
other language or Papers, as so put forth by me. -
‘I never deemed it worth one thought to awaken the French from their
dream of glory in this case; and should have still preserved silence, had
not Mr. Alison and yourself given it the weight of English Authority.
What I abstained from doing for forty-four years, I feel no disposition to
engage in now. So far as I am an active party, I confine my interference
to our side of the water; leaving you to do as you see fit on the other.
“The statement I have already made in the case is abundant. But I
will put you in possession of other facts. The action over; the British
fleet brought-to ; the French making all sail, and running before the
wind; their dismasted hulks having also got before the wind, and follow-
ing them;-the Wengeur being the sternmost, having a French jack flying
on the stump of the foremast, Captain Duckworth of H.M.S. Orion, ordered
the first lieutenant, Mr. Meares, himself to fire a shot over her. This
Lieutenant Meares did, and the Wengeur hauled down the flag /
“For his gallant conduct in that action, on his return to France, Cap-
tain Renaudin, who commanded the Wengeur, was promoted to be Rear-
Admiral, and his flag was flying at Toulon on board the Tonnant, when I
was first-lieutenant of the Culloden blockading that port. I wrote to re-
mind him of the treatment he had met with when prisoner on board the
Culloden ; and soliciting his kindness towards Lieutenant Hills, who had
been taken in H.M.S. Berwick, and being recognised as having, in com-
mand of a battery at Toulon, at the period of its evacuation, wounded a
Frenchman,—was very ill-used. Renaudin's letter now lies before me;
SINKING OF THE WENGEUR. 217
and does him much honour, as, during the fervour of that period, it was a
dangerous sin to hold intercourse with us. I send you a copy; it is in
English.
* I am, Sir, very faithfully yours,
* A. J. GRIFFITHS.”
Here next is the ‘curious appendix' we spoke of; which might
itself be conclusive of this controversy:
Copy of Rear-Admiral Renaudin's Letter.
“On board of the ship Tonnant, Bay of Toulon,
the seventeenth Vendémiaire, fourth year of
the French Republic.
* “I have, Sir, received the favour of your letter. I am extremely
obliged to you for the interest you have taken to my promotion. I'll never
forget the attention you have paid me, as well on board the Culloden as
when going to prison. I wish you should be well persuaded that your
generosity and sensibility will be forever present to my mind, and that I
can't be satisfied before it will be in my power to prove you my gratitude.
If your friend, Lieutenant Hills, had not already gone back home, I should
have returned to him all the attention you have been so good to paie me.
I'll be always sincerely satisfied when it will be in my power to be of some
use to any of the officers of the English navy, that the circumstances of
war will carry in my country, and particularly to them that you will denote
me as your friends.
* “Be so good as take notice of our French officers that you have pri-
soners, and particularly to Captain Condé that has been taken on the ship
Ça-ira. Please to remember me to Captain Schomberg, to Mr. Oliver, and
to all the rest of the officers that I have known on board of the Culloden.
May the peace between our nations give leave to your grateful Renaudin to
entertain along with you a longer and easier correspondence.”
“Addressed, “To Lieutenant Griffiths, on board of the Culloden, Flo-
renzo Bay, Corse Island.””
My French friend did not find it expedient to publish, in the
Journals or elsewhere, any ‘article,” or general challenge to his
countrymen for counter-evidence, as I had suggested; indeed one
easily conceives that no French Journal would have wished to be
the foremost with an article of that kind. However, he did what
a man of intelligence, friendliness and love of truth, could do: ad-
dressed himself to various official persons connected with the
Naval Archives of France; to men of note, who had written French
Naval Histories, &c.;–from one of whom came a response in
writing, now to be subjoined as my last Document. I ought to
say that this latter gentleman had not seen Admiral Griffiths's
written Letters; and knew them only by description. The others
responded verbally; that much was to be said, that they would
prepare Mémoires, that they would do this and that. I subjoin
the response of the one who did respond : it amounts, as will be
seen, not to a recantation of an impudent amazing falsehood, but
218 M1ISCELLANIES.
to some vague faint murmur or whimper of admission that it is
probably false.
6. Lettre de Monsieur à Monsieur (24 Dec. 1838).
* Mon cher Monsieur,—Je regrette de ne pouvoir vous donner des ren-
seignemens bien précis sur la glorieuse affaire du Vengeur. Mais si l'opi-
nion que je me suis formée sur cet événement peut vous être de quelque
utilité, je me féliciterai de vous l'avoir donnée, quelque peu d'influence
qu'elle doive avoir sur le jugement que votre ami se propose de porter sur
le combat du 13 Prairial.
* Je suis de Brest; et c'est dans cette ville qu'arriva l'escadre de Villaret-
Joyeuse, après le combat meurtrière qu'il avait livrée à l'Amiral Howe.
Plusieurs des marins qui avaient assisté à l'affaire du 13 Prairial m'ont
assuré que le Vengeur avait coulé après avoir amené son pavillon. Quel-
ques hommes de l'équipage de cet héroïque vaisseau furent même, dit-on,
recueillis sur des débris par des embarcations anglaises. Mais il n'en est
pas moins vrai, que le Vengeur ne coula qu'après s'être sacrifié pour empê-
cher l'escadre anglaise de couper la ligne française.
* Les rapports du tems, et les beaux vers de Chénier et de Le Brun sur
le naufrage du Vengeur, n'ont pas manqué de poétiser la noble fin de ce
vaisseau. C'est aux cris de Vive la République, disent-ils, que le vaisseau
s'est englouti, avec le pavillon tricolore au plus haut de tous ses mâts.
Mais, je le répète, il est très probable que si une partie de l'équipage a
disparu dessous les flots aux cris de Vive la République, tout l'équipage n'a
pas refusé d'un commun accord le secours que les vaisseaux ennemis pou-
vaient offrir aux naufragés. Au surplus, quand bien même le Vengeur ait
amené son pavillon avant de couler, l'action de ce vaisseau se fesant can-
noner pendant plusieurs heures pour disputer à toute une escadre le pas-
sage le plus faible de la ligne française, n'en était pas moins un des plus
beaux faits d'armes de notre histoire navale. Dans les bureaux de la
marine, au reste, il n'existe aucun rapport de Villaret-Joyeuse ou de Jean-
Bon Saint-André que puisse faire supposer que le Vengeur ait coulé sans
avoir amené son pavillon. On dit seulement dans ces relations du combat
du 13, que le Vengeur a disparu après avoir résisté au feu de toute l'es-
cadre anglaise qui voulait rompre la ligne pour tomber sur les derrières de
l'armée, et porter le désordre dans tout le reste de notre escadre.
* Voilà, mon cher Monsieur, tout ce que je sais sur l'affaire qui vous
occupe. C'est peu de chose comme vous le voyez, car ce n'est presque que
mon opinion que je vous exprime sur les petits renseignemens que j'ai pu
recueillir de la bouche des marins qui se trouvaient sur le vaisseau la
Montagne ou d'autres navires de l'escadre Villaret.—Recevez l'assurance,'
&c. &c.
The other French gentlemen that * would prepare Mémoires,'
have now in the sixth month prepared none ; the * much' that
* was to be said' remains every syllable ofit unsaid. My friend
urged his official persons ; to no purpose. Finally he wrote to
Barrère himself, who is still alive and in possession of his facul-
ties. From Barrère no response. Indeed, one would have liked
to see the ancient adroit countenance of Barrère perusing, through
its spectacles, a request to that effect ! For verily, as the French
say, tout est dit. What can be added on such a matter ?
SINKING of THE VENGEUR. 219
I conclude therefore, dear Yorke, with an expression of amaze-
ment over this same “glorieuse affaire du Vengeur;' in which truly
much courage was manifested; but no unparalleled courage ex-
cept that of Barrère in his Report of the 21st Messidor, Year 2.
That a son of Adam should venture on constructing so majestic a
piece of blague, and hang it out dextrously, like the Earth itself,
on Nothing, to be believed and venerated by twenty-five million
sons of Adam for such a length of time, the basis of it all the
while being simply Zero and Nonentity: there is in this a great-
mess, may a kind of sublimity that strikes us silent, as if ‘the
Infinite disclosed itself,' and we had a glimpse of the ancient
Reign of Chaos and Nox Miraculous Mahomet, Apollonius with
the Golden Thigh, Mendez Pinto, Münchäusen, Cagliostro, Psal-
manazar seem but botchers in comparison. -
It was a successful lie too 2 It made the French fight better
in that struggle of theirs? Yes, Mr. Yorke;—and yet withal there
is no lie, in the long-run, successful. The hour of all windbags
does arrive; every windbag is at length ripped, and collapses;
likewise the larger and older any ripped windbag is, the more
fetid and extensive is the gas emitted therefrom. The French
people had better have been content with their real fighting.
Next time the French Government publishes miraculous bulletins,
the very badauds will be slower to believe them ; one sees not
what sanction, by solemn legislative decree, by songs, ceremonials,
wooden emblems, will suffice to produce belief. Of Nothing you
can, in the long-run, and with much lost labour, make only—
Nothing.
But ought not the French Nation to hook-down that wooden
“Modèle du Vengeur,” now at this late date; and, in a quiet way,
split it into brimstone lucifers? The French Nation will take its
own method in that.
As for Rear-Admiral Griffiths, we will say that he has, in his
veteran years, done one other manful service : extinguished a
Falsehood, sent a Falsehood to the Father of it, made the world
free of it henceforth. For which let him accept our respectful
thanks. I, having once been led to assert the fable, hold myself
bound, on all fit occasions, to unassert it with equal emphasis.
Till it please to disappear altogether from the world, as it ought
to do, let it lie, as a copper shilling, nailed to the counter, and
seen by all customers to be copper.
10th June 1839. T. CARLYLE.
P.S.—Curiously enough, while this is passing through the
press, there appears in some French Newspaper called Chronique
220 MISCELLANIES.
Universelle, and is copied conspicuously into the Paris National (du
10 Juin 1839), an article headed * Six Matelots du Vengeur.' Six old
sailors of the Vengeur, it appears, still survive, seemingly in the
Bourdeaux region, in straitened circumstances ; whom the editor,
with sure hope, here points-out to the notice of the charitable ;-
on which occasion, as is natural, Barrère's blague once more comes
into play, not a whit worse for the wear, nay if anything, rather
fresher than ever. Shall we send these brave old weather-beaten
men a trifle of money, and request the Mayor of Mornac to take
their affidavit ?
* Nothing in them but doth suffer a sea-change
Into something new and strange !'
Surely the blague, if natural, is not essential in their case. Old
men that have fought for France ought to be assisted by France,
even though they did not drown themselves after battle. Here is
the extract from the National :
* Six Matelots du Vengeur.
* Tandis que la France faisait triompher son indépendance à toutes ses
frontières, le sol, inépuisable en défenseurs, suffisait à peine à la nourrir, et
c'était de l'Amérique, à travers les flots de l'Océan, que la France était
réduite à recevoir son pain. L'Europe en armes ne pouvait dompter la
révolution, l'Angletetre essaya de la prendre par famine. Grâce à la croisière
de l'Amiral Howe sur les côtes de Bretagne et de Normandie, elle espérait
intercepter un convoi de deux cents voiles, chargé d'une quantité considér-
able de grains, précieux ravitaillement impatiemment attendu dans nos
ports; mais pour sauver ce convoi une escadre française était déjà sortie de
Brest sous le commandement de Villaret-Joyeuse et la direction du repré-
sentant du peuple Jean-Bon Saint-André.
* Le 9 Prairial de l'an II (28 Mai 1794), les deux armées navales se
sont aperçues, et le cri unanime de nos équipages demande le combat avec
un enthousiasme irrésistible. Cependant aux trente-trois vaisseaux de ligne
et aux douze frégates de l'ennemi, nous n'avions à opposer que trente bâti-
mens, que des matelots enlevés de la veille à la charrue, que des officiers et
un amiral encore novices dans leurs grades, et c'était contre les marins ex-
périmentés de la vieille Angleterre qu'il nous fallait soutenir l'honneur du
pavillon tricolore, arboré pour la première fois dans un combat sur mer.
* On sait que le combat s'engagea dès le jour même, continua dès le
lendemain, fut deux jours interrompu par une brume épaisse, et recommença
le 13 (1er Juin) à la lumière d'un soleil éclatant, avec une opiniâtreté inouïe.
Notre escadre racheta l'inhabileté de ses manœuvres par un déploiement
extraordinaire de courage, la vivacité terrible de ses feux et l'audace de ses
abordages. De quel côté resta la victoire ? Les deux flottes, cruellement
endommagées, se séparèrént avec une égale lassitude, et désespérèrent d'arra-
cher un succès décisif à la supériorité du nombre ou à l'énergie de la résist-
ance. Mais cette journée fut un baptême de gloire pour notre jeune marine,
et la France recueillit le prix du sang versé. Durant cette même journée,
notre convoi de deux cents voiles traversait paisiblement le champ de bataille
du 10, encore semé de débris, et abordait nos côtes.
* Ce fut au milieu de cette action si mémorable qu'il fut donné à un
SINECING OF THE VENGEUR. $ 221
vaisseau français de se faire une gloire particulière et d'immortaliser son
nom. Cerné par les bâtimens ennemis, couvert des lambeaux de ses voiles
et de sa mâture, eriblé de boulets et déjà faisant eau de toutes parts, le
Vengeur refuse d'amener son pavillon. L'équipage ne peut plus combattre,
il peut encore mourir. Au tumulte de la résistance, aux clameurs du courage
désespéré succède un profond silence ; tous montent ou sont portés sur le
pont. Ce ne sont plus des combattans, ce sont des martyrs de la religion et
de la patrie. Là, tranquillement exposés au feu des Anglais, sentant de
moment en moment le vaisseau s'enfoncer dans les flots, l'équipage salue
d'un dernier regard les couleurs nationales flottant en pièces au-dessus de sa
tête, il pousse un dernier cri de Vive la République ! Vive la Liberté ! Vive
la France ! et le Vengeur a disparu dans l'abîme. Au récit de ce fait, dont
l'Angleterre elle-même rendit témoignage avec admiration, la France entière
fut émue et applaudit, dans ce dévouement sublime, son esprit nouveau flot-
tant sur les eaux comme il marchait sur la terre, indomptable et résolu à
vaincre ou mourir. D'après un décret de la Convention, le Vengeur légua
son nom à un vaisseau en construction dans les bassins de Brest, son image
à la voûte du Panthéon, le rôle de l'équipage à la colonne de ce temple, et
tous les arts furent appelés à concourir à la célébration de tant d'héroïsme,
tandis que la reconnaissance publique s'empressait de secourir les veuves et
les orphelins des héros.
* Voilà ce que fit alors la France ; mais ce qu'elle ignore peut-être, c'est
que du Vengeur les flots n'ont pas tout englouti, et que six marins, recueillis
par l'ennemi et long-temps retenus dans les prisons de l'Angleterre, ont
survécu jusqu'à cette heure même, réduits à une condition misérable sur le
sol de la patrie qui les honora morts et les oublie vivans ! Six, avons-nous
dit, et voici leurs noms, leur âge, leur position, leur résidence :
* Prévaudeau (Jacques), âgé de 60 ans, demeurant à Mornae ; vivant,
bien que vieux, du peu de travail qu'il peut faire.
* Cerclé (Jean-Pierre), âgé de 69 ans, demeurant à La Tremblade ;
vivant médiocrement de son travail.
* David (Jacques), invalide, âgé de 56 ans, demeurant à La Tremblade ;
misérable.
* Favier (Jacques), âgé de 64 ans, demeurant à La Tremblade ; n'ayant
pour vivre que le travail de ses bras.
* Torchut (André-Pierre), âgé de 70 ans, demeurant à l'Aiguille ; comme
ses compagnons, il n'a d'autre ressource que son travail.
* Manequin (François), âgé de 70 ans, demeurant au Gua ; mendiant son
pain et presque aveugle.
* Certes, il nous conviendrait peu d'implorer la reconnaissance publique
pour ces six marins ; nous croyons suffisant de les nommer. Qu'on nous
permette seulement un mot : Sous la restauration, un navire fut expédié
jusque dans l'Océan-Pacifique pour découvrir sur les lointains récifs les traces
du naufrage de la Peyrouse, et ce fut à grands frais que l'on en réunit
quelques débris en bois, en fer, en cuivre et en plomb, religieusement con-
servés dans nos musées. Aujourd'hui, c'est sur notre plage même que
gisent, ensevelis dans la misère et dans l'obscurité, des débris vivans du
naufrage héroïque du Vengeur ; la France et le gouvernement de Juillet
pourraient-ils n'être point jaloux d'acquitter la dette nationale envers ces
dernières reliques du patriotisme inspiré par notre grande révolution ?-
Chronique Universelle.'
*,* The publication of this Paper in Fraser's Magazine gave
rise to a certain effervescence of prose and verse, patriotic-objur-
222 MISCELLANIES.
gatory, in several of the French Journals, Revue Britannique, Na-
tional, Journal du Peuple, &c.; the result of which, threatening to
prove mere zero otherwise, was that ‘M. A. Jal, Historiographer
of the French Navy, did candidly, in the Number of the Revue
Britannique for October 1839, print, from the Naval Archives of
France, the original Despatch of Captain Renaudin to his own Govern-
ment ; the full official Narrative of that battle and catastrophe, as
drawn up by Renaudin himself, and the surviving officers of the
Vengeur; dated Tavistock, 1 Messidor, An II," and bearing his
and eight other signatures;–whereby the statement of Admiral
Griffiths, if it needed confirmation, is curiously and even minutely
confirmed in every essential particular, and the story of the Wen-
geur is at length put to rest forever.
In that objurgatory effervescence,—which was bound by the
nature of it either to cease effervescing and hold its peace, or else
to produce some articulate testimony of a living man who saw, or
of a dead man who had said he saw, the Vengeur sink otherwise
than this living Admiral Griffiths saw it, or than a brave ship
usually sinks after brave battle, the one noticeable vestige of
new or old evidence was some dubious traditionary reference to
the Morning Chronicle of the 16th June ; or, as the French tra-
ditionary referee turned-out to have named it, “le Journal LE
MoRNING du 16 Juin. Following this faint vestige, additional micro-
scopic researches in the Morning Chronicle of the 16th June and
elsewhere did, at last, disclose to me what seemed the proba-
ble genesis and origin of Barrère's Fable; how it first suggested
itself to his mind, and gathered shape there, and courage to pub-
lish itself: the discovery, unimportant to all other things and
men, is not of much importance even to our criticism of Barrère;
altering somewhat one's estimate of the ratio his poetic faculty
may have borne to his mendacity in this business, but leaving the
joint product of the two very much what it was in spiritual value;
—a discovery not worth communicating. The thing a Lie wants,
and solicits from all men, is not a correct natural-history of it, but
the Swiftest possible extinction of it, followed by entire silence
concerning it.
* Twenty days before that final sublime Report of Barrère's.
223
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER.1
[1841.]
EARLY in the seventeenth century of our era, a certain Mr. Robert
Baillie, a man of solid wholesome character, lived in moderate
comfort as Parish Minister of Kilwinning, in the west of Scotland.
He had comfortably wedded, produced children, gathered Dutch
and other fit divinity-books; saw his duties lying tolerably man-
ageable, his possessions, prospects not to be despised ; in short,
seemed planted as for life, with fair hopes of a prosperous com-
posed existence, in that remote corner of the British dominions.
A peaceable, “solid-thinking, solid-feeding, yet withal clear-sighted,
diligent and conscientious man,—alas, his lot turned-out to have
fallen in times such as he himself, had he been consulted on it,
would by no means have selected. Times of controversy ; of op-
pression, which became explosion and distraction: instead of
peaceable preaching, mere raging, battling, soldiering; universal
shedding of gall, of ink and blood: very troublous times | Com-
posed existence at Kilwinning, with rural duties, domestic pledges,
Dutch bodies of divinity, was no longer possible for a man.
Till the advent of Laud's Service-book into the High Church
of Edinburgh (Sunday the 23d of July 1637), and that ever-me-
morable flight of Jenny Geddes's stool at the head of the Dean
officiating there, with “Out, thou foul thief wilt thou say mass
at my lug”—till that unexpected cardinal-movement, we say, and
the universal, unappeasable riot, which ensued thereupon over all
these Kingdoms, – Baillie, intent on a quiet life at Kilwinning,
was always clear for some mild middle course, which might lead
to this and other blessings. He even looked with suspicion on the
Covenant when it was started; and was not at all one of the first
to sign it. Sign it, however, he did, by and by, the heat of others
heating him ever higher to the due welding pitch; he signed it,
and became a vehement, noteworthy champion of it, in such fashion
as he could. Baillie, especially if heated to the welding pitch, was
1 LONDON AND WESTMINSTER REVIEW, No. 72. — The Letters and Jowrmals
of Robert Baillie, A.M., Principal of the University of Glasgow, 1637-1662.
Edited from the Author's Manuscripts, by David Laing, Esq. 3 vols. (Wols. i.
and ii.) Robert Ogle, Edinburgh, 1841.
224 MISCELLANIES.
by no means without faculty. There lay motion in him; nay,
curiously, with all his broad-based heaviness, a kind of alacrity,
of internal swiftness and flustering impetuosity-a natural vehe-
mence, assiduous swift eagerness, both of heart and intellect: very
considerable motion; all embedded, too, in that most wholesome,
broad-based love of rest ! The eupeptic, right-thinking nature of
the man; his sanguineous temper, with its vivacity and sociality;
an ever-busy ingenuity, rather small perhaps, but prompt, hopeful,
useful; always with a good dash, too, of Scotch shrewdness, Scotch
canniness; and then a loquacity, free, fervid, yet judicious, canny,
in a word, natural vehemence, wholesomely covered over and tem-
pered (as Sancho has it) in “three inches of old Christian fat,'—
all these fitted Baillie to be a leader in General Assemblies and
conclaves, a man deputable to the London Parliament and else-
whither. He became a prominent, and so far as the Scotch Kirk
went, prečminent man; present in the thick of all negotiations,
Westminster Assemblies, Scotch Commissions, during the whole
Civil War. It can be said too, that his natural faculty never, in
any pitch of heat or confusion, proved false to him; that here,
amid revolt and its dismal fluctuations, the worthy man lived
agitated indeed, but not unprosperous. Clearly enough, in that
terrible jostle, where so many stumbling fell, and straightway had
their lives and fortunes trodden out, Baillie did, according to the
Scotch proverb, contrive to ‘carry his dish level’ in a wonderful
manner, spilling no drop; and indeed was found at last, even after
Cromwell and all Sectaries had been there, seated with prosperous
composure, not in the Kirk of Kilwinning, but in the Principalship
of Glasgow University; which latter he had maintained success-
fully through all changes of weather, and only needed to renounce
at the coming-in of Charles II., when, at any rate, he was too old
for holding it much longer. So invincible, in all elements of for-
tune, is a good natural endowment; so serviceable to a man is
that same quality of motion, if embedded in wholesome love of
rest,-hasty vehemence dissolved in a bland menstruum of oil
Baillie, however we may smile at him from this distance, was
not entirely a common character: yet it must be owned that, for
anything he of himself did or spoke or suffered, the worthy man
must have been forgotten many a year ago; the name of him
dead, non-extant; or turning-up (as the doom of such is) like the
melancholy mummy of a name, under the eye of here and there
an excavator in those dreary mines, bewildered, interminable
rubbish-heaps of the Cromwellian Histories; the dreariest per-
haps that anywhere exist, still visited by human curiosity, in this
world. But his copious loquacity, by good luck for him and for
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER. 225
us, prompted Baillie to use the pen as well as tongue. A certain
invaluable “Reverend Mr. Spang,' a cousin of his, was Scotch
minister at Campvere, in Holland, with a boundless appetite to
hear what was stirring in those days; to whom Baillie, with
boundless liberality, gives satisfaction. He writes to Spang, on
all great occasions, sheet upon sheet; he writes to his Wife, to
the Moderator of his Presbytery, to earls and commoners, to this
man and to that; nothing loth to write when there is matter.
Many public Papers (since printed in Bushworth's and other Col. .
lections) he has been at the pains to transcribe for his esteemed
correspondents; but what to us is infinitely more interesting, he
had taken the further trouble to make copies of his own Letters.
By some lucky impulse, one hardly guesses how, for as to com-
position, nothing can be worse written than these Letters are, mere
hasty babblements, like what the extempore speech of the man
would be, he took this trouble; and ungrateful posterity reaps
the fruit. These Letters, bound together as a manuscript book,
in the hands of Baillie's heirs, grew ever more notable as they
grew older; copies, at various times, were made of parts of them ;
some three copies of the whole, or almost the whole, whereof one,
tolerably complete, now lies in the British Museum." Another
usefuller copy came into the hands of Woodrow, the zealous, dili-
gent Historian of the Scotch Church, whose numerous Manu-
scripts, purchased partly by the General Assembly, partly by the
Advocates' Library, have now been accessible to all inquirers, for
a century or more. Baillie, in this new position, grew ever nota-
bler; was to be seen quoted in all books on the history of that
period; had to be read and searched through, as a chief authority,
by all original students of the same. Half a century of this grow-
ing notability issued at last in a printed edition of Baillie ; two
moderate octavo volumes, published, apparently by subscription,
at Edinburgh, in 1775. Thus, at length, had the copious outpour-
ings, first emitted into the ear of Spang and others, become free
to the curiosity of all; purchasable by every one that had a few
shillings, legible by every one that had a little patience. As the
* As in this Museum transcript, otherwise of good authority, the name of
the principal correspondent is not ‘Spang' but ‘Strang,' and we learn else-
where that Baillie wrote the miserablest hand, a question arises, Whether
Strang be not, once for all, the real name, and Spang, from the first, a mere
falso reading, which has now become inveterate? Strang, equivalent to Strong,
is still a common name in those parts of Scotland. Spang (which is a Scottish
verb, signifying leap violently, leap distractedly,–as an imprisoned, terrified
kangaroo might leap) we never heard of as a Christian person’s surname before I
“The Reverend Mr. Leap-distractedly labouring in that dense element of Camp-
vere, in Holland $ We will hope not, if there be a ray of hope . The Banna-
tyne Club, now in a manner responsible, is adequate to decide. —— Spang is
the name, persist they (A.D. 1846).
WOL. IV. Q
226 MISCELLANIES,
Interest in those great transactions never died-out in Scotland,
Baillie's Letters and Journals, one of the best remaining illustra-
tions of them, became common in Scottish libraries.
Unfortunately, this same printed edition was one of the worst.
A tradition, we are told, was once current among Edinburgh book-
sellers that it had been undertaken on the counsel of Robertson
and Hume ; but, as Mr. Laing now remarks, it is not a credible
tradition. Robertson and Hume would, there is little doubt, feel
the desirableness of having Baillie edited, and may, on occasion,
have been heard saying so; but such an edition as this of 1776 is
not one they could have had any hand in. In fact, Baillie may be
said to have been printed on that occasion, but not in any true
sense edited at all. The quasi-editor, who keeps himself entirely
hidden in the background, is guessed to have been one ‘Mr.
Robert Aiken, Schoolmaster of Anderton,'—honour to his poor
shadow of a name ! He went over Baillie's manuscripts in such
fashion as he could; “ omitted many Letters on private affairs;’
copied those on public matters, better or worse; and prefixing
some brief, vague Memoir of Baillie, gathered out of the general
wind, sent his work through the press, very much as it liked to
go. Thanks to him, poor man, for doing so much ; not blame
that, in his meagre garret, he did not do more But it is to be
admitted, few books were ever sent forth in a more helpless con-
dition. The very printer's errors are numerous. Note or comment
there is none whatever, and here and there some such was palpably
indispensable ; for Baillie, in the hurry of his written babblement,
is wont to designate persons and things, often enough, in ways
which Spang and the world would indeed understand at the time,
but which now only critics and close investigators can make out.
The narrative, watery, indistinct, flowing out in vague diffusion, at
the first and best, fades now too frequently into the enigmatic, and
stagnates in total obscuration, if some little note be not added.
Whom does the Letter-writer, in his free and easy speed, intend
to designate by such phrases as “his Lordship,’ ‘the Lord Mar-
quis, his Grace, precious Mr. David, the Reverend Mr. H. of N. 2
An editor ought to tell; and has not tried there to do it. Far
from doing it, he has even mistaken some of the initials them-
selves, and so left the natural dimness changed into Egyptian
dark. Read in this poor Anderton edition, Baillie, in many pass-
ages, produces the effect, not of a painting, even of the hugest
signpost painting, but of a monstrous, foamy Smear, resemblance
of no created thing whatever. Additional outlays of patience be-
come requisite, and will not always suffice. It is an enigma you
might long guess over, did not perhaps indolence and healthy
BAILLIE THE COVF. NANTER. 227
instincts premonish you that, when you had it, the secret would
be worth little.
To all which unhappy qualities we are to add, that this same
edition of 1775 had, in late times, become in the highest degree
difficult to get hold of ! In English libraries it never much
abounded, nor in the English book-markets; its chief seat was
always its native one. But of late, as would seem, what copies
there were, the growing interest of whatsoever related to the
heroes of the Civil War had altogether absorbed. Most interest-
ing to hear what an eye-witness, even a stupid eye-witness, if
honest, will say of such matters! The reader that could procure
himself a Baillie to pore over, was lucky. The price in old-book
shops here in London had risen, if by rare chance any copy turned
up, to the exorbitancy of two guineas' -
And now, under these circumstances, the Bannatyne Club, a
private reunion of men who devote themselves expressly to the
rescue and reprinting of Scarce books and manuscripts, with or
without much value, very wisely determined to reëdit Baillie ;
first, for their own private behoof; and secondly, as is their wise
wont in some cases, and as in every case is easy for them (the
types being already all set, and the printer's ‘composition' accom-
plished, as it were, gratis), for the behoof of the public that will
buy. Very wisely too, they appointed for this task their Honorary
Secretary, the Keeper of the Edinburgh Signet Library, Mr. David
Taing, a gentleman well known for his skill in that province of
things. Two massive Octavos, in round legible type, are accord-
ingly here; a Third and last is to follow in a few months; and so
Baillie's Letters and Journals, finally in right reading condition,
becomes open, on easy terms, to whoever has concern in it. In
right reading condition; for notes and all due marginal guidances,
such as we desiderated above, are furnished ; the text is rectified
by collation of three several Manuscripts, among others, Baillie's
own, of the “evil handwriting' of which an appalling facsimile
gives evidence; the various Letters relating to private affairs are
not excluded in this edition, but wisely introduced and given in
full, as deserving their paper and ink perhaps better than the aver-
age. On the other hand, public Papers, if easily accessible else-
where, are withheld, and a reference given to the Rushworth, Hard-
wicke, Thurloe, or other such Collection, where they already stand;
if not easily accessible, they are printed here in appendixes; and
indeed not they only, but many more not copied by Baillie, some
of them curious enough, which the editor's resources and long ac-
quaintance with the literature of Scotch History have enabled him
to offer. This is the historical description, origin and genesis of
228 MISCELLANIES.
these two massive Octavos named Baillie's Letters and Journals,
published by the Banmatyne Club, which now lie before us; thus
are they, and thence did they come into the world.
It remains now only to be added, critically as well as histori-
cally, that Mr. Laing, according to all appearance, has exhibited
his usual industry, sagacity, correctness, in this case ; and done
his work well. The notes are brief, illuminative, ever in the right
place ; and, what we will praise withal, not over plenteous, not
more of them than needed. Nothing is easier than for an anti-
quarian editor to seize too eagerly any chance or pretext for pour-
ing-out his long-bottled antiquarian lore, and drowning his text,
instead of refreshing and illustrating it; a really criminal proceed-
ing ! This, we say, the present editor has virtuously forborne.
A good index, a tolerable biography, are to be looked for, accord-
ing to promise, in the Third Volume. Baillie will then stand on
his shelves, accessible, in good reading condition : a fact which,
since it is actually a fact, may with propriety enough be published
in this journal, and in any and all other journals or methods, as
widely as the world and its wants and ways will allow.
We have no thought here of going much into criticism of
Baillie or his Book; still less of entering at all on that enormous
Business he and it derive their interest from, that enormous
whirlpool on which, the fountains of the great deep suddenly
breaking up, the pacific, broad-based Minister sees himself
launched forth from Kilwinning Kirk, and set sailing, and epis-
tolising ! The Book has become curious to us, and the Man curi-
ous; much more so on a riper acquaintance than they were at
first. Nevertheless our praise of him, hearty enough in its kind,
must on all sides be limited. To the general, especially to the
uninformed or careless reader, it will not be safe to promise much
ready entertainment from this Book. Entertainment does lie in
it, both amusement and instruction do ; but rather for the student
than the careless reader. Poor Baillie is no epic singer or speaker,
—the more is the pity! His Book is like the hasty, breathless,
confused talk of a man, looking face to face on that great whirl of
things. A wiser man—would have talked more wisely . But, on
the whole, this man too has a living heart, a seeing pair of eyes;
above all, he is clearly a veracious man ; tells Spang and you the
truest he has got to tell, in such a bustling hurry as his. Veraci-
ous in word ; and we might say, what is a much rarer case, veraci-
ous in thought too ; for he harbours no malignity, perverse hatred,
purposes no wrong against any man or thing; and indeed, at
worst, is of so transparent a nature, all readers can discern at all
times where his bias lies, and make due allowance for that.
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER. 229
Truly, it is pity the good man had not been a little wiser, had
not shown a little more of the epic gift in writing: we might then
have had, as in some clear mirror, or swift contemporaneous Da-
guerreotype delineator, a legible living picture of that great Time,
as it looked and was But, alas, no soul of a man is altogether
such a ‘mirror;' the highest soul is only approximately, and still at
a great distance, such. Besides, we are always to remember, poor
Baillie wrote not for us at all; but for Spang and the Presbytery
of Irvine, with no eye to us ! What of picture there is, amid such
vaporous mazy indistinctness, or indeed quite turbulent weltering
dislocation and confusion, must be taken as a godsend. The man
gazes as he can, reports as he can. His words flowing-out bubble-
bubble, full of zealous broad-based vehemence, can rarely be said
to make a picture ; though on rare occasions he does pause, and
with distinctness, nay with a singular felicity, give some stroke of
one. But rarely, in his loquacious haste, has he taken time to de-
tect the real articulation and structure of the matter he is talking
of-where it begins, ends, what the real character and purport,
the real aspect of it is : how shall he in that case, by any possi-
bility, make a portrait of it 2 He talks with breathless loquacity,
with adipose vehemence, about it and about it. Nay, such linea-
ments of it as he has discovered and mastered, or begun to dis-
cover (for the man is by no means without an eye, could he have
taken time to look), he, scrawling without limit to Spang, uses not
the smallest diligence to bring-out on the surface, or to separate
from the as yet chaotic, undiscovered ; he leaves them weltering
at such depth as they happen to lie at. A picture does struggle
in him; but in what state of development the reader can guess.
As the image of a real object may do, shadowed in some huge
frothy ever-agitated vortex or deluge, -ever-agitated cauldron,
boiling, bubbling, with fat vehemence
Yet this too was a thing worth having: what talk, what babble-
ment, the Minister of rural Kilwinning, brought suddenly in sight
of that great World-transaction, will audibly emit from him. Here
it is, fresh and fresh, after two centuries of preservation: how
that same enormous whirlpool, of a British Nation all torn from its
moorings, and set in conflict and self-conflict, represents itself,
from moment to moment, in the eyes of this shrewd-simple, zeal-
ous, yet broad-bottomed, rest-loving man. On the whole, is there
not, to the eager student of History, something at once most at-
tractive and yet most provoking in all Memoirs by a Contempo-
rary? Contemporaneous words by an eye-witness are like no other.
For every man who sees with eyes is, approximately or else afar off,
—either approximately and in some faint degree decipherable, or
230 MISCELLANIE8.
too far off, altogether undecipherable, and as if vacant and blank,
—the miraculous “Daguerreotype-mirror,’ above mentioned, of
whatever thing transacts itself before him. No shadow of it but
left some trace in him, decipherable or undecipherable. The poor
Soul had, lying in it, a far stranger alchemy than that of the electric-
plates: a living Memory, namely, an Intelligence, better or worse.
Words by an eye-witness! You have there the words which a son
of Adam, looking on the phenomenon itself, saw fittest for depic-
turing it. Strange to consider: it, the very phenomenon itself,
does stand depictured there, though under such inextricable ob-
Scurations, shortcomings, perversions,—fatally eclipsed from us for-
ever. For we cannot read it; the traces are so faint, confused, as
good as non-extant to our organs: the light was so unfavourable,
—the ‘electric-plate' was so extremely bad. Alas, you read a hun-
dred autograph holograph letters, signed ‘Charles Rex, with the
intensest desire to understand Charles Rex, to know what Charles
Rex was, what he had in his eye at that moment; and to no pur-
pose. The summary of the whole hundred autographs is vacuity,
inanity; like the moaning of winds through desert places, through
damp empty churches: what the writer did actually mean, the
thing he then thought of, the thing he then was, remain forever
hid from you. No answer; only the ever-moaning, gaunt, unsyl-
labled woo-woo of wind in empty churches | Most provoking; a
provocation as of Tantalus;–for there is not a word written there
but stands like a kind of window through which a man might see,
or feels as if he might see, a glimpse of the whole matter. Not a
jolt in those crabbed angular sentences, may not a twirl in that
Cramp penmanship, but is significant of all you seek. Had a man
but intellect enough, -which, alas, no man ever had, and no angel
ever had, how would the blank become a picture all legible ! The
doleful, unsyllabled woo-woo of church-winds had become intelli-
gible, cheering articulation; that tragic, fatal-looking, peak-bearded
individual, ‘your constant assured friend, Charles Rex, were no
longer an enigma and chimera to you! With intellect enough,
alas, yes it were all easy then; the very signing of his name were
then physiognomical enough of him
Or, descending from such extreme heights and rarefactions,
where, in truth, human nature cannot long breathe with satisfac-
tion,-may we not here deduce once more the humble practical
inference, How extremely incumbent it is on every reader to read
faithfully with whatever of intellect he has ; on every writer, in like
manner, to exert himself, and write his wisest ? Truly the man
who says, still more who writes, a wise word on any object he has
seen with his eyes, or otherwise come to know and be master of,
RAILLIE THE COVENANTER. 231
º
the same is a benefactor to all men. He that writes unwise words,
again,_especially if on any great, ever-memorable object, which in
this manner catches him up, so to speak, and keeps him memor-
able along with it, is he not the indisputablest malefactor? Yes;
though unfortunately there is no bailiff to collar him for it, and
give him forty stripes save one; yet, if he could do better, and has
not done it, yes! Shall stealing the money of a man be a crime;
and stealing the time and brains of innumerable men, generation
after generation of men, be none 2 For your tenebrific criminal
has fixed himself on some great object, and cannot perhaps be for-
gotten for centuries; one knows not when he will be entirely for-
gotten He, for his share, has not brought light into the world
according to his opportunity, but darkness; he is a son of Nox,
has treacherously deserted to the side of Chaos, Nox and Erebus;
strengthening, perpetuating, so far as lay in him, the reign of pro-
lixity, vacuity, vague confusion, or in one word, of stupidity and
misknowledge on this earth ! A judicious Reviewer, in a time
when the ‘abolition of capital punishments' makes such progress
in both Hemispheres,-would not willingly propose a new penalty
of death; but in any reasonable practical suggestion, as of a bailiff
and forty stripes save one, to be doubled in case of relapse, and to
go on doubling in rigid geometric progression till amendment en-
sued, he will cheerfully concur.
But to return. The above considerations do not, it is clear,
apply with any stringency to poor Baillie; whose intellect, at best,
was never an epic one; whose opportunities, good as they look,
were much marred by circumstances; above all, whose epistolary
performance was moderately satisfactory to Spang! We are to re-
peat that he has an intellect, and a most lively, busy one of its
kind; that he is veracious, what so few are. If the cursory reader
do not completely profit by him, the student of History will
prosper better. But in this, as in all cases, the student of History
must have patience. Everywhere the student of History has to
pass his probation, his apprenticeship; must first, with painful
perseverance, read himself into the century he studies,—which
naturally differs much from our century; wherein, at first entrance,
he will find all manner of things, the ideas, the personages, and
their interests and aims, foreign and unintelligible to him. He as
yet knows nobody, can yet care for nobody, completely understand
nobody. He must read himself into it, we say; make himself at
home, and acquainted, in that repulsive foreign century. AC-
quaintance once made, all goes smoother and smoother; even the
hollow-sounding ‘constant assured friend Charles Rex' improves
somewhat; how much more this headlong, warm-hearted, blunder-
232 MISCELLANIES.
ing, babbling, “ sagacious jolterhead' of a Baillie For there is a
real worth in him, spite of its strange guise ;-something of the
Boswell; rays of clear genial insight, sunny illumination, which
alternate curiously with such babblement, oily vehemence, con-
fused hallucination and sheer floundering platitude An incon-
gruous, heterogeneous man; so many inconsistencies, all united in
a certain prime-element of most turbid, but genuine and fertile
Tadical warmth.
Poor Baillie The daily tattle of men, as the air carried it two
hundred years ago, becomes audible again in those pages: an old
dead Time, seen alive again, as through a glass darkly. Those
hasty chaotic records of his, written down offhand from day to day,
are worth reading. They produce on us something like the effect
of a contemporaneous daily newspaper; more so than any other
record of that time; much more than any of the Mercuries, ‘Bri-
tannic,” “Aulic,’ ‘Rustic,’ which then passed as newspapers, but
which were in fact little other than dull-hot objurgatory pamphlets,
—grown cold enough now. Baillie is the true newspaper; he is to
be used and studied like one. Taken up in this way, his steamy
indistinctness abates, as our eye gets used to the steamy scene he
lives in ; many a little trait discloses itself, where at first mere
vacant confusion was discernible. Once familiar to the time, we
find the old contemporaneous newspaper, which seemed mere
waste paper, a rather interesting document. Nay, as we said, the
Rilwinning Minister himself by degrees gets interesting; for there
is a strange homely worth in him, lovable and ludicrous; a strange
mass of shrewd simplicities, naiveties, blundering ingenuities, and
of right wholesome vitalities withal. Many-tinted traceries of
Scotch humours, such as a Galt, a Scott, or a Smollett might have
rejoiced over, lie in this man, unobliterated by the Covenant and
all distance of time. How interesting to descry, faintly developed,
yet there and recognisable through the depths of two dead cen-
turies, and such dense garnitures and dialects all grown obsolete,
the indubitablest traits of Scotch human-nature, redolent of the
‘West-country,’ of the kindly ‘Salt-market,' even as this Day still
sees it and lovingly laughs over it! Rubicund broad lineaments
of a Nicol Jarvie, sly touches too of an Andrew Fairservice; nay
sputterings, on occasion, of the tindery tragic fire of an adust Lieu-
tenant Leshmahago, fat as this man is, and of a pacific profes-
sion | We could laugh much over him, and love him much, this
good Baillie; but have not time at present. We will point out his
existence; advise all persons who have a call that way to read that
same ‘contemporaneous newspaper' of his with attention and
thanks. We give it Small praise when we say, there is perhaps no
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER. 233
book of that period which will, in the end, better reward the
trouble of reading. Alas, to those unfortunate persons who have
Sat, for long months and years, obstinately incurring the danger of
locked jaw, or suspension at least of all the thinking faculties, in
stubborn perusal of Whitlocke, Heylin, Prynne, Burton, Lilburn,
Laud and Company, -all flat, boundless, dead and dismal as an
Irish bog-such praise will not seem too promissory !
But it is time to let Baillie speak a little for himself; readers,
both cursory and studious, will then judge a little for themselves.
We have fished-up, from much circumambient indistinctness and
embroiled babblement, a lucid passage or two. Take first that
clear vision, made clear to our eyes also, of the Scotch encamped
in warlike array under Field-Marshal Alexander Lesley, that “old
little crooked soldier,’ on the slopes of Dunse Law, in the sunny
days of 1639. Readers are to fancy that the flight of Jenny
Geddes's stool, which we named a cardinal movement (as wrongs
long compressed do but require some slight fugling-signal), has set
all Scotland into uproar and violent gesticulation : the first slight
stroke of a universal battle and wrestle, with all weapons, on the
part of all persons, for the space of twenty years or so, one of the
later strokes of which severed a king's head off! That there were
flockings of men to Edinburgh, and four ‘Tables' (not for dining
at) set up. That there have been National Covenants, General
Assemblies, royal commissioners; royal proclamations not a few,
with protests of equal number; much ineffectual proclaiming, and
protesting, and vociferating; then, gradually, private ‘drillings in
Fife' and other, shires; then public calling-forth of the “twelfth
penny,' of the ‘fourth fencible man ;' Dutch arms from Holland,
Scotch officers from Germany, - not to speak of commissariat-
stores, thrifty “webs of harding' (canvas) drawn ‘from the good
wives of Edinburgh' by eloquent pulpit-appeals ‘of Mr. Harry Rol-
lock:'—and so, finally, this is what we discern on the pleasant coni-
cal Hill of Dunse, in the summer weather of 1639. For, as Baillie
says, “They might see now that before we would be roasted with a
“slow fire, by the hands of Churchmen who keeped themselves far
‘aback from the same, we were resolved to make a bolt through
‘the reek, and try to get a grip of some of those who had first
‘ kindled the fire, and still laid fuel to it, and try if we could cast
“ them in the midst of it, to taste if that heat was pleasant when it
‘ came near their own skins!' Proper enough; and lo, accord-
ingly:
‘This our march did much affray the English camp: Dunse Law was
in sight, within six or seven miles; for they lay in pavilions some two miles
234 MISCEI, LANIES.
above Berwick, on the other side of Tweed, in a fair plain along the river.
The king himself, beholding us through a prospect (spy-glass), did conjec-
ture us to be sixteen or eighteen thousand men; but at one time we were
above twenty thousand.’ *
“It would have done you good to have casten your eyes athort our brave
and rich Hill, as oft I did, with great contentment and joy. For I (quoth
the wren) was there among the rest; being chosen preacher by the Gentle-
men of our Shire, who came late with my Lord of Eglinton. I furnished
to half a dozen of good fellows muskets and pikes, and to my boy a broad-
sword. I carried, myself, as the fashion was, a sword and a couple of Dutch
pistols at my saddle; but, I promise, for the offence of no man except a
robber in the way; for it was our part to pray and preach for the encour-
agement of our countrymen, which I did, to my power, most cheerfully.
Our Hill was garnished on the top, towards the south and east, with our
mounted cannon; well near to the number of forty, great and Small. Our
regiments lay on the sides of the Hill, almost round about : the place was
not a mile in circle; a pretty round, rising in a declivity, without steepness,
to the height of a bow-shot; on the top, somewhat plain; about a quarter
of a mile in length, and as much in breadth; as I remember, capable of
tents for forty thousand men. The crowners' lay in kennous (canvas)
lodges, high and wide; their captains about them in lesser ones; the
sojours about, all in huts of timber covered with divot (turf) or straw.
Our crowners, for the most part, were noblemen: Rothes, Lindsay, Sinclair
had among them two full regiments at least, from Fife; Balcarras a horse-
troop; Loudon,’ &c. &c. ‘Our captains were mostly barons, or gentlemen
of good note; our lieutenants, almost all, sojours who had served over sea
in good charges. Every company had flying, at the captain's tent-door, a
brave new Colour, with the Scottish Arms, and this ditton, For Christ's
Crown and Covenant, in golden letters,'—a notable emblazonment indeed!
“The councils of war were keeped daily in the Castle of Dunse; the
ecclesiastic meetings in Rothes's large tent. Lesley the General, and
Daillie his Lieutenant, came nightly on their horses for the setting of the
watch. Our Sojours were all lusty and full of courage; the most of them
stout young ploughmen; great cheerfulness in the face of all. The only
difficulty was to get them dollars or two the man, for their voyage from
home and the time they entered on pay: for among our yeomen money at
any time, not to say then, used to be very scarce.” “We were much obliged
to the town of Edinburgh for moneys: Harry Rollock, by his sermons,
moved them to shake-out their purses; the garners of Non-covenanters,
especially of James Maxwell and my Lord Winton, gave us plenty of wheat.
One of our Ordinances was To seize on the rents of Non-covenanters,'—ane
helpful Ordinance, so far as it went.
‘Our sojours grew in experience of arms, in courage, in favour, daily:
every one encouraged the other; the sight of the nobles and their beloved
pastors daily raised their hearts. The good sermons and prayers, morning
and even, under the roof of Heaven, to which their drums did call them for
bells; the remonstrances, very frequent, of the goodness of their Cause, of
their conduct (guidance) hitherto by a Hand clearly Divine; also Lesley his
skill and fortune,—made them all so resolute for battle as could be wished.
We were feared (afraid) that emulation among our nobles might have done
harm when they should be met in the fields; but such was the wisdom and
* Crowner, coroner, and (to distinguish this officer from him who holds the
inquests), coronel, which last is still intrinsically our pronunciation of the word
now spelt colonel.
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER. 235
authority of that old little crooked souldier, that all, with ane incredible
Submission, from the beginning to the end, gave over themselves to be
guided by him, as if he had been Great Solyman. He keeped daily, in the
Castle of Dunse, ane honourable table: for the nobles and strangers, with
himself: for the gentlemen waiters, thereafter at a long side-table. I had
the honour, by accident, one day to be his chaplain at table, on his left
hand. The fare was as became a general in time of war: not so curious
by far as Arundel's, in the English Camp, to our nobles; but ye know that
the English sumptuosity, both in war and peace, is despised by all their
neighbours,'—bursten poke-puddings of Englishers, whose daily care is to
dine, not wisely but too well!
“But had ye lent your ear in the morning, or especially at even, and
heard in the tents the sound of some singing psalms, some praying, and
Some reading Scripture, ye would have been refreshed. True, there was
Swearing, and cursing, and brawling, in some quarters: but we hoped, if our
camp had been a little settled, to have gotten some way for these misorders;
for all, of any fashion, did regret, and all did promise to contribute their
best endeavours for helping all abuses. For myself, I never found my mind
in better temper than it was all the time frae I came from home, till my
head was again homeward; for I was as a man who had taken my leave
from the world, and was resolved to die in that service without return. I
found the favour of God shining upon me; and a sweet, meek, yet strong
and vehement spirit leading me, all along. But, alas, I was no sooner on
my Way Westward, after the conclusion of peace, than my old security
returned.”
This is the Scotch Encampment on the Hill of Dunse; King
Charles looking at it through a spy-glass, not without interest,
from the plain above Berwick on the other side of the river. Could
he have discovered the Reverend Robert Baillie riding thither
from Kilwinning, girt with sword and Dutch pistols, followed by
the five or six rough characters whom he had laid out hard cash
to furnish with muskets and pikes, and to what a dreadful pitch
the mind of the pacific broad-based man had now got itself screwed,
resolute ‘to die on that service without return,'—truly, this also
might have been illuminative for his Majesty | Heavy Baillie was
an emblem of heavy Scotland, in the rear of which lay heavy
England. But “our sweet Prince' discerned only the surfaces of
things. The mean peddling details hid from him, as they still do
from so many, the essential great meaning of the matter; and he
thought, and still again thought, that the rising-up of a million
men, to assert that they were verily men with souls, and not
automatons with wires, was some loud-sounding pettiness, some
intrigue, to be dealt with by intriguing. Herein he fundament-
1 We have used the freedom to modernise Baillie's spelling a little; about
which, “as he could never fix,’ says Mr. Laing, “on any constant way of spelling
his own name,” there need not be much delicacy: we also endeavour to im-
#. his punctuation, &c. here and there; but will nowhere in the least alter
is Sense.
236 MISCELLANIES.
ally mistook; mis-saw;-and so mis-went, poor Prince, in all man-
ner of ways: to the front of Whitehall ultimately
But let us now, also through a kind of dim Spy-glass, cast a
far-off look into the domesticities of Baillie; let us glance, namely,
through certain of these paper-missives, into that ancient Manse
of Kilwinning; all vanished now, to the last stone of it, long since ;
swallowed in the depths of edacious Time. The reader shall also
See a journey to Town done on ponies, along the coast of what is
now the Great North-eastern Railway, working with so much more
velocity by steam
The ‘Treaty of Berwick,' fruit of that Dunse-Law expedition
of the Scotch People, has soon issued again in proclamations, in
‘papers burnt by the hangman;' and then in a new Scotch Arma-
ment, lodged, this time, not on Dunse Hill, with uncertain moneys
from Mr. Harry Rollock, but, by a bold movement through the
Tyne at Newburn, safely in the town of Newcastle, with eight
hundred pounds a-day from the northern counties: whereupon
follows a new ‘Treaty of Rippon,'—fit also to be burnt by the hang-
man by and by. Baillie rejoices somewhat in the milk and honey
of these northern counties, comparatively a fat, productive land.
The heroic man, girt again with Dutch pistols, innocuous except
to thieves, had made his Will before departing on these formidable
expeditions: ‘It will be my earnest desire,' thus wills he, “that
“my wife be content with the annual-rent of seven thousand merk
‘(Scots) from what is first and readiest, and that she quit judicially
‘what further she could crave by her very subdolous contract'—
subdolous contract, I say, though not of her making; which she
should quit. “What then remains, let it be employed for her chil-
‘dren's education and profit. I would give to Robert five thou-
“sand merk, if he quit his heirship; the rest to be equally divided
‘ betwixt Harrie and Lillie. Three hundred merk to be distribute
“presently among the Poor of the Parish of Kilwinning, at sight
‘ of the Session.' All this we omit, and leave behind us in a state
of comfortable fixity;-being bound now on a new mission: to the
new Parliament (which will one day become a Long Parliament)
just sitting down at present. Read these select fractions of Let-
ters ‘to Mrs. Baillie at Kilwinning,' dated November 1640, on the
road to London :
‘My Heart, I wrote to thee from Edinburgh; also, from Kelso, to Mr.
Claud, suspecting thy absence from home. I wrote to thee likewise here,
in Newcastle, on Saturday last. Since, I thank God, I have been very weel,
as thy heart could wish, and all my company. -
‘Yesternight the Committee sent for me, and told me of their desire I
should go to London with the Commissioners. I made sundry difficulties;
which partly they answered, and partly took to their consideration till this
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER. 237
day. But now, at our presbytery after sermon, both our noblemen and
ministers in one voice thought meet that not only Mr. Alexander Hender-
son, but also Mr. Robert Blair, Mr. George Gillespie, and I, should all
three, for divers ends, go to London; Mr. Robert Blair to satisfy the minds
of many in England who love the way of New England (Independency)
better than that of Presbyteries in our Church; I for the convincing of
that prevalent faction (Arminian Episcopals) against which I have written;
Mr. Gillespie for the crying-down of the English ceremonies, on which he
has written; and all four of us to preach, by turns, to our Commissioners
in their house; which is the custom of divers noblemen at court, and was
our practice all the time of the Conference at Rippon. We mind to Dur-
ham, God willing, tomorrow; and other twelve miles on Saturday, to Darn-
toun (Darlington), there to stay all Sunday, where we hope to hear, before
we cross the Tees on Monday, how things are like to frame in the English
Parliament. Loudon is fashed with a defluxion; he will stay here till
Monday, and come on as health Serves, journey or post.
“They speak here of the prentices pulling down the High-Commission
house at London; of General King's landing, with six or seven thousand
Danes, in the mouth of the Thames, near London. We wish it were so;
but we take it, and many things more you will hear, for clatters.
‘My Heart, draw near to God; neglect not thy prayers morning and
evening with thy servants, as God will help thee; read and pray, beside
that, in private. Put Rob to the school; teach him and Harrie both some
little beginnings of God's fear; have a care of my little Lillie. I pray thee
write to me how thou and they are. “Thy awne,
* Newcastle, 5 November 1640.’ “R. BAILLIE.
‘My Heart, Thou sees Islip no occasion. I wrote to thee yesternight
from Newcastle; this night I am in Durham, very weel, rejoicing in God’s
good providence.
“After I closed my letters, my boy Jamie was earnest to go with me; so,
notwithstanding of my former resolution to send him home, I was content
to take him. I spake to the General, and put-in his name, as my man, in
the safe-conduct. But, when I was to loup on (to mount horse), he failed
me, and would go no fartherl I could not strive then; I gave him his
leave, and a dollar to carry him home. His folly did me great wrong; for
if I should have gone back to bespeak ane other, I would have lossed my
company : So without troubling myself, I went forward with my company,
manless. But, behold the gracious providence of my God: as I enter in
Durham, one of my old scholars, a preacher in Colonel Ramsay's regiment
of horse, meets with me before I light; will have me to his chamber; gives
me his chamber, stable, servant, a cup of sack, and all courtesy; gets me a
religious youth, a trooper, ready with a good horse, to go with me to Lon-
don. Major-General Baillie makes me, and all the Commissioners that
were there, sup with him, and gives the youth his leave to go with me.
Mr. Archibald Johnston assures me for his charges, as well as my own.
So my man James's foolish unthankfulness is turned about for my ten
times better provision: I take this for a presage and ane erles (earnest) of
God's goodness towards me all this voyage.
‘We hope that Loudon's defluxion shall not hinder him to take journey
on Tuesday. The morrow we intend but one other post to Darlington, and
there stay till the Great Seal (our Safe-conduct) come to us. The Lord be
with thee and my babies, and all my flock and friends. Thy awne,
“Durham, 6 November, Friday.” “R. BAILLIE.
238 MISCEI.LANIES.
‘My Heart, — I know thou does now long to hear from me. I wrote to
thee on Saturday was eight days [dated Friday], from Durham. That day
we went to Darlington, where Mr. Alexander Henderson and Mr. Robert
Blair did preach to us on Sunday. At supper on Sunday, the post, with
the Great Seal of England for our safe-conduct, came to us; with the Earl
of Bristol's letter to Loudon, entreating us to make haste.
‘On Monday we came, before we lighted, to Boroughbridge, twenty-five
miles. On Tuesday we rode three short posts, by Ferrybridge, to Doncas-
ter." There I was content to buy a bobbin waistcoat. On Wednesday we
came another good journey to Newark-on-Trent, where we caused Dr.
Moyslie sup with us. On Thursday we came to Stamford; on Friday to
Huntingdon; on Saturday to Ware; here we rested the Sabbath and heard
the minister, after we were warned of the end of the service, preach two
good sermons,'—the service once well over, one gets notice, finds the Ser-
mons very fair!
‘On Monday morning we came that twenty miles to London before sun-
rising;” all well, horse and man, as we could wish; divers merchants and
their servants with us on little naigs; the way extremely foul and deep.
Our journeys being so long and continued, and Sundry of us unaccus-
tomed with travel, we took it for God's singular goodness that all of us were
so preserved: none in the company held better out than I and my man,
and our little noble naigs. From Kilwinning to London I did not so much
as stumble: this is the fruit of your prayers. I was also all the way full of
courage, and comforted with the sense of God's presence with my spirit.
We were at great expenses on the road. Their inns are all like palaces;
no wonder they extorse their guests: for three meals, coarse enough, we
would pay, together with our horses, sixteen or seventeen pound sterling.
Some three dish of creevishes (écrivisses), like little partans (miniature
lobsters), two-and-forty shillings sterling.”—Save us!—‘We lodge here in the
Common Garden (Covent Garden); our house-mails (rent) every week
above eleven pound sterling. The City is desirous we should lodge with
them; so tomorrow I think we must flit.
“All things here go as our heart could wish. The Lieutenant of Ireland
(Strafford) came but on Monday to town, late; on Tuesday, rested; on
Wednesday, came to Parliament; but, ere night, he was caged. Intolerablo
pride and oppression cry to Heaven for vengeance.”
‘Tuesday here was a fast; Mr. Blair and I pi'eached to our Commis-
Sioners at home, for we had no clothes for outgoing. Many ministers used
greater freedom than ever here was heard of. Episcopacy itself beginning
to be cried-down, and a Covenant cried-up, and the Liturgy to be scorned.
The town of London and a world of men mind to present a Petition, which
I have seen, for the abolition of bishops, deans and all their appurtenances.
It is thought good to delay till the Parliament have pulled-down Canter-
bury (Laud) and some prime bishops, which they mind to do so soon as
the King has a little digested the bitterness of his Lieutenant's censure.
Huge things are here in working; the mighty Hand of God be about this
great work! We hope this shall be the joyful harvest of the tears that,
these many years, have been sown in these Kingdoms. All here are weary
of bishops. w
* London, 18 November 1640.” * R. BAILLIE.
1 * Ferribrig, Toxford and Duncaster,” Baillie writes here; confusing the
matter in his memory; putting Tuxford north of Doncaster, instead of south
and subsequent.
* Sunrise on the 16th of November 1640.
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER, 239
Weary of bishops, indeed; and ‘creevishes' at such a price;
and the Lord Lieutenant Strafford caged, and Canterbury to be
pulled down, and everywhere a mighty drama going on ; and thou,
meanwhile, my Heart, put Rob to the School, give Harry and him
some beginnings of wisdom, mind thy prayers, quit subdolous con-
tracts, ‘have a care of my little Lillie ' Poor little Lilias Baillie ;
tottering about there, with her foolish glad tattlement, with her
laughing eyes, in drugget or other homespun frock, and antiqua-
rian bib and tucker, far off in that old Manse of Kilwinning ! But
she grew to be tall enough, this little Lillie, and a mother, and a
grandmother; and one of her grandsons was Henry Home Lord
Raimes;1 whose memorial, and Lillie's, is still in this earth!
Greatly the most impressive of all the scenes Baillie witnessed
in that mighty drama going on everywhere, was the Trial of Straf.
ford. A truly impressive, momentous scene; on which Rushworth
has gathered a huge volume, and then and since many men have
written much ; wherein, nevertheless, several features would have
been lost, had not the Minister of Kilwinning, with his rustic open
heart and seeing eyes, been there. It is the best scene of all he
has painted, or hastily sign-painted, plastered and daubed. With
careful industry, fishing as before from wide wastes of dim em-
broilment, let us snatch here and there a luminous fragment, and
adjust them as is best possible; and therewith close our contem-
poraneous newspaper. Baillie's report, of immense length and
laste, is to the Presbytery of Irvine, and dated May 1641. We
give two earlier fractions first, from Letters to Mrs. Baillie. Straf.
ford, on that fasting Tuesday, when the pulpits were so loud
against bishops, was reposing from fatigues of travel. On the
morrow he repaired to his place in Parliament, nothing doubting;
“but ere night he was caged :'
Wednesday, 17 November 1640. “The Lower House closed their
doors; the Speaker keeped the keys till his accusation was concluded.
Thereafter Mr. Pym went up, with a number at his back, to the Higher
House; and in a short pretty speech, did, in name of the Lower House,
and in name of the Commons of all England, accuse Thomas Earl of
Strafford, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, of High Treason; and required his
person to be arrested till probation might be heard. And so Pym and his
train withdrew; and thereupon the Lords began to consult on that strange
and unexpected motion.
‘The word goes in haste to the Lord Lieutenant where he was with the
King. With speed he comes to the House; he calls loudly at the door;
James Maxwell, Keeper of the Black-rod, opens. His Lordship, with a
proud glooming countenance, makes towards his place at the board-head;
but at onco many bid him void the House. So he is forced, in confusion,
1 Woodhouselee's Life of Kaimes.
240 MISCEI.LANIES,
to go to the door till called again.”— Called again, “he stands, but is com-
manded to kneel on his knees; after hearing their resolution, he offers to
speak, but is commanded to be gone without a word.
“In the outer room, James Maxwell required him, as prisoner, to de-
liver his sword; when he had gotten it, he cries with a loud voice for
his man “to carry my Lord Lieutenant's sword.” This done, he makes
through a number of people towards his coach; all gazing, no man cap-
ping to him, before whom, that morning, the greatest of England would
have stood uncovered; all crying, “What is the matter?” He said, “A
small matter, I warrant you!” They replied, “Yes, indeed, High Treason
is a small matter!”.'
Saturday, January 30, 1641. ‘The Lieutenant this day was sent for.
He came from the Tower by water, with a guard of musketeers; the world
wondering, and at his going out and coming in, shouting and cursing him
to his face.
* Coming into the Higher House, his long Charge, in many sheets of
paper, was read to him, For a while he sat on his knees before the bar;
then after they caused him sit down at the bar, for it was eight o'clock
before all was read. He craved a month to answer.’
May 4, 1641. “Reverend and dear Brethren, “ . ‘The world now
seeth that the delay is alone upon their side. Their constant attendance
on Strafford is pretended to be the cause; and truly it is a great part of the
reason why our business and all else has been so long suspended. Among
many more, I have been ane assiduous assistant; and therefore I will give
you some account of what I have heard and seen in that most notable
Process.
‘Westminster Hall is a room as long, as broad, if not more, than the
outer house of the High Church of Glasgow, supposing the pillars were all
removed. In the midst of it was erected a stage, like to that prepared for
our Assembly at Glasgow, but much larger; taking up the breadth of the
whole house from wall to wall, and of the length more than a third part.
“At the north end was set a throne for the King, a chair for the Prince;
before it lay a large woolsack, covered with green, for my Lord Steward, the
Earl of Arundel; and then lower, two other woolsacks for my Lord Keeper
and the Judges, with the rest of the Chancery, all in their red robes. Be-
neath this, a little table for four or five clerks of the Parliament in their
black gowns. Round about these, some forms covered with green frieze,
whereon the Earls and Lords did sit in their red robes, of that same
fashion, lined with the same white ermine-skins, as you see the robes of
our Lords when they ride in Parliament at Edinburgh. The Iords on their
right sleeves have two bars of white skins; the Wiscounts two and ane half;
the Earls three ; the Marquess of Winchester three and ane half. Eng-
land hath no more Marquesses; and he but ane late upstart creature of
Queen Elizabeth's.
“In front of these forms where the Lords sit, is a bar covered with
green. At the one end of it standeth the Committee of eight or ten gentle-
men appointed by the House of Commons to pursue (prosecute); at the
midst there is a little desk, where the prisoner Strafford sits or stands as
he pleaseth, together with his keeper, Sir William Balfour, the Lieutenant
of the Tower. At the back of this is another desk for Strafford's four secre-
taries, who carry his papers, and assist him in writing and reading. At
their side is a void for witnesses to stand. Behind them is a long desk,
1 This is he of the Arundel Marbles: he went abroad next year.
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER. 241
close to the wall of the room, for Strafford's counsel-at-law, some five or
six able Lawyers, who were not permitted to dispute in matter of fact, but
questions of right, if any should be incident. This is the order of the
i. below on the floor; the same that is used daily in the House of
Or(IS.
“Upon the two sides of the House, east and west, there arose a stage of
eleven ranks of forms, the highest touching almost to the roof. Every one
of these forms went from the one end of the room to the other, and con-
tained about forty men. The two highest were divided from the rest by a
rail; and a rail cutted-off from the rest, at every end, some seats. The
gentlemen of the Lower House did sit within the rail; other persons with-
out. All the doors were keeped very straitly with guards: we always be-
hoved to be there a little after five in the morning. My Lord Willoughby
Earl of Lindsey, Lord Chamberlain of England, ordered the House with
great difficulty. James Maxwell, Black-rod, was great usher; a number of
other servant gentlemen and knights attended. We, by favour, got place
Within the rail, among the Commons. The House was full daily before
Seven. Against eight the Earl of Strafford came in his barge from the
Tower, accompanied by the Lieutenant and a guard of musketeers and hal-
berdiers. The Lords in their robes were set about eight; the King was
usually there half an hour before them.
‘The King came not into his throne, for that would have marred the
action; for it is the order of England, that when the King appears, he
Speaks what he will, and no other speaks in his presence. But at the back
of the throne there were two rooms on the two sides; in the one did Duke
de Vanden, Duke de Vallet,” and other French nobles sit; in the other the
King, the Queen, Princess Mary, the Prince Elector, and some court ladies.
The tirlies (lattices), that made them to be secret, the King brake down
With his own hands; so they sat in the eye of all; but little more regarded
than if they had been absent: for the Lords sat all covered; those of the
Lower House, and all others except the French noblemen, sat uncovered when
the Lords came, and not else. A number of ladies were in boxes above the
rails, for which they paid much money. It was daily the most glorious
assembly the Isle could afford, yet the gravity not such as I expected. Oft
great clamour without about the doors: in the intervals while Strafford was
making ready for answers, the Lords got always to their feet, walked and
clattered (chatted); the Lower-House men, too, loud clattering. In such
sessions, ten hours long, there was much public eating, not only of confec-
tions, but of flesh and bread; bottles of beer and wine going thick from
mouth to mouth, without cups; and all this in the King's eye: yea many
but turned their back, and’—(Gracious Heavens!)—‘through the forms they
sat on. There was no outgoing to return; and oft the sitting was till two,
three, or four o'clock.’
Strangely in this manner, no ‘dignity of history' in the smallest
obstructing us, do we look, through these rough-and-ready Scotch
words, through these fresh Kilwinning eyes, upon the very body
ITemporary wooden wall; from east to west, as Baillie counts the azi-
muths.
* * Duke de Vanden,” we presume, is Duc de Vendôme, left-hand Brother
of Charles's Queen; “Vallet' is La Valette, who in 1642 became Duc d’Esper-
non, succeeding his celebrated Father of that title. Two visitors of her Ma-
jesty. Notices of them, of their departure from the country by and by, are in
Commons Journals, ii. 670, 576 (13 July, 17 May, 1642), &c.
WOL. IV. R.
242 MISCELLANIES.
of the old Time, its form and pressure, its beer and wine bottles,
its loud clattering and crowding. There it is, visually present:
one feels as if, by an effort, one could hear it, handle it, speak
with it. How different from the dreary vacuity of most ‘philoso-
phies teaching by experience' is the living picture of the fact;
such as even a Boswell or a Baillie can give, if they will but
honestly look In spite of haste, we must continue a little fur-
ther; catch a few more visualities:
‘The first session was on Monday, March 22 (1641). All being set, as
I have said, the Prince on a little chair at the side of the throne, the Cham-
berlain and Black-rod went and fetched-in my Lord Strafford. He was
always in the same suit of black, as if in dool. At the entry he gave a low
courtesy; proceeding a little, he gave a second; when he came to his desk,
a third; then at the bar, the fore-face of his desk, he kneeled; rising
quickly, he saluted both sides of the House, and sat down. Some few of
the Lords lifted their hats to him. This was his daily carriage.
‘My Lord Steward, in a sentence or two, showed That the House of
Commons had accused the Earl of Strafford of high treason; that he was
there to answer; that they might manage their evidence as they thought
meet. They thereupon desired one of their clerks to read their impeachment.
I sent you the printed copy long ago. The first mine articles, being but
generalities, were passed; the twenty-eight of the farther impeachment
were all read. The clerk's voice was small; and after the midst, being
broken, was not heard by many.
‘My Lord of Strafford was, in his answer, very large, accurate and elo-
quent. A preamble, wherein,’ &c.: this he spoke; and then a long paper,
of particular answers to the twenty-eight charges, was read. “The read-
ing of it took-up large three hours. His friends were so wary that they
made three clerks read by turns, that every one might hear. . . . . After
all, Strafford craved leave to speak; but the day being so far spent, to two
or three o'clock, he was refused; and the Lord Steward adjourned the
House till the morrow at eight. -
‘The second session, on Tuesday 23d. The King and Queen and all
being set as the day before, Mr. Pym had a long and eloquent oration,
only against the preamble of Strafford's answer, wherein he laboured to—
&c. &c. “The first witness, Sir Pierce Crosby, who—' * * * * When
Pym had ended, the Earl required time, if it were but to the morrow, to
answer so heavy charges, many whereof were new. After debate pro and
contra, one of the Lords spake of adjourning their House; and pressed
their privilege, that at the motion of any one Lord the House behoved to
be adjourned. So the Lords did all retire to their own House above, and
debated among themselves the question for a large half-hour. During
their absence, though in the eye of the King, all fell to clattering, walking,
eating, toying; but Strafford, in the midst of all the noise, was serious
with his secretaries, conferring their notes, and writing. The Lords re-
turned; the Steward pronounced their decision : that the matters spoken
being all of fact, and this only in answer to his own preamble, he should
make an answer without any delay. So, without sign of repining, the Earl
answered something to all had been said; instanced—' . . . .
‘Wednesday, 24th. Mr. Maynard handled the first of the twenty-eight
articles, with witnesses, &c. In his reply, the Earl first required permis-
sion to withdraw and collect himself: this was refused. “He made ane
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER, 243
excellent answer.’—“It were tedious to repeat all their quick passages.’
“The third article, “That he would make the King's little finger heavier
than the loins of the law,” this was proven by Sundry. Among others, Sir
David Foulis, whom he had crushed, came to depose. He excepted against
this witness, as one who had a quarrel with him. Maynard produced against
him his own decree, subscribed by his own hand, that whereas Sir David
had brought before him the same exception against a witness, he had de-
creed that a witness for the King and Commonwealth must be received,
notwithstanding any private quarrels. When he saw his own hand, he
said no more, but in a jesting way, “You are wiser, my Lord Steward, than
to be ruled by any of my actions as patterns!”.'
Or, quitting all order of ‘sessions,' let us mark here and there,
in ‘this notable Process,’ a characteristic feature, as we can gather
it. Mark, in general, the noble lone lion at bay; mark the fierce,
winged and taloned, toothed and rampant enemies, that in flocks,
from above and from beneath, are dashing at him
“My Lord of Strafford required, farther, to answer to things objected
the former day; but was refused. He required permission to retire, and
advise about the present objections; but all that he obtained was a little
time's advisement in the place he was in. So hereafter, it was Strafford's
constant custom, after the end of his adversary's speech, to petition for
time of recollection; and obtaining it, to sit down with his back to the
Lords, and most diligently read his notes, and write answers, he and his
secretaries, for ane half-hour, in the midst of a great noise and confusion,
which continued ever till he rose again to speak.’—
‘For this he produced Sir William Pennyman as witness; a member
of the Lower House, who, both here and many times else, deposed point-
blank all he required. Mr. Maynard desired him to be posed (for no man
there did speak to any other, but all speech was directed to my Lord Stew-
ard), “When, and at what time, he was brought to the remembrance of
those words of my Lord Strafford's 2" All of us thought it a very needless
motion. Sir William answered, “Ever since the first speaking of them,
they were in his memory; but he called them most to remembrance since
my Lord Strafford was charged with them.” Maynard presently catched
him, “That he behoved, then, to be answerable to the House for neglect
of duty; not being only silent, but voting with the rest to this article,
wherein Strafford was charged with words whereof he knew he was free!”
There arose, with the word, so great an hissing in the House, that the gen-
tleman was confounded, and fell a-weeping.
‘Strafford protested, He would rather commit himself to the mercy of
God alone, giving over to use any witness in his defence at all, than that
men, for witnessing the truth, should incur danger and disgrace on his
aCCOunt.”—
“So long as Maynard was principal speaker, Mr. Glyn lay at the wait,
and usually observed some one thing or other; and uttered it so perti-
nently that, six or seven times in the end, he got great applause by the
whole House.’—
‘I did marvel much, at first, of their memories, that could answer and
reply to so many large allegeances, without the missing of any one point;
but I marked that both the Lieutenant when they spake, and the Lawyers
when he spake, did write their notes; and in their speeches did look on
244 * MISCELLANIES.
those papers. Yea, the most of the Lords and Lower House did write
much daily, and none more than the King.’—
‘My Lord Montmorris was called to depose, in spite of Strafford's ex-
ception.' * * * “In his answers Strafford alleged, concerning
Lord Montmorris, the confession of his fault under his own hand;’ ‘that
no evil was done to him, and nothing intended but the amendment of his
very loose tongue:–if the gentlemen of the Commons House intended
no more but the correction of his foolish tongue, he would heartily give
them thanks!’—
* * * Concerning the Lord Deputy's scutching of a gentleman
with a rod.' * * º
“The other part of the article was his executing one Thomas Dennitt,
who after a long want of pay, craving it from his captain, was bidden be
gone to the gallows. He went his way, but was brought back, and said to
have stolen ane quarter of beef; for this he is sentenced to die, and albeit
some noblemen had moved the Deputy's lady to be earnest for his life, yet
without mercy he was execute."—
“Glyn showed That daily there came to their hands so much new mat-
ter of Strafford's injustice, that if they had their articles to frame again,
they would give-in as many new as old. Strafford stormed at that, and
proclaimed them ane open defiance. Glyn took him at his word; and of-
fered instantly to name three-and-twenty cases of injustice, wherein his
own gain was clear. He began quickly his catalogue with Parker's paper
petition. Strafford, finding himself in ane ill taking, did soon repent of his
passionate defiance, and required he might answer to no more than he was
charged with in his paper.' (Seventh session, 29th March.) -
‘Strafford said, “That though his bodily infirmity was great, and the
charge of treason lay heavy on his mind; yet that his accusation came
from the honourable House of Commons, this did most of all pierce through
his soul.” Maynard alleged “That he (Strafford), by the flow of his elo-
quence, spent time to gain affection;”—as, indeed, with the more simple
sort, especially the ladies, he daily gained much. He replied quickly,
“That rhetoric was proper to these gentlemen, and learning also ; that
betwixt the two he was like to have a hard bargain.” Bristol was busy in
the mean time, going up and down, and whispering in my Lord Steward's
ear; whereupon others, not content cried, “To your places, to your places,
my Lords!”—
* Maynard applied it vehemently, that he had subverted law, and
brought-in ane arbitrary power on the subjects' goods for his own gain.'
“Mr. Glyn showed, “The Earl of Strafford was now better than his
word: he had not only made Acts of State equal to Acts of Parliament,
but also his own acts above both.”
“He (Strafford) answered, “That his intention in this matter was cer-
tainly good;” “that when he found the people's untowardness, he gave
over the design.” Maynard answered, “That intentions cleared not illegal
actions; that his giving-over before tens of thousands were starved, maketh
him not innocent of the killing of thousands,”’—sarcastic Learned-ser-
geant'
‘The Earl of Clare and others debated with Vane (the elder Vane)
sharply, What “this kingdom” did mean; England, or only perhaps Scot-
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER. 245
land? Maynard quickly silenced him : “Do you ask, my Lord, if this
kingdom be this kingdom or not?”
My learned friends! most swift, sharp are you; of temper most
accipitral,—hawkish, aquiline, not to say vulturish; and will have
this noble lamed lion made a dead one, and carrion useful for
you!—Hear also Mr. Stroud, the honourable Member, standing
“at the end of the bar covered with green cloth, one of the “eight
or ten gentlemen appointed to prosecute, how shrill he is:
“The Deputy said, “If this was a treason, being informed as he was,
it behoved him to be a traitor over again, if he had the like occasion.”
35 º * Mr. Stroud took notice of Strafford's profession to do this
over again. He said, “He well believed him; but they knew what the king-
dom suffered when Gaveston came to react himself!”.'
This honourable Member is one of the Five whom Charles
himself, some months afterwards, with a most irregular non-con-
stabulary force in his train, sallied down to the House to seek
and seize,_remembering this, perhaps, and other services of his 1
But to proceed:
‘My Lord Strafford regretted to the Lords the great straits of his estate.
He said “he had nothing there but as he borrowed.” Yet daily he gave
to the guard that conveyed him ten pound, by which he conciliated much
favour; for these fellows were daily changed, and wherever they lived, they
talked of his liberality. He said, “his family were, in Ireland, two-hun-
dred-and-sixty persons, and the House of Commons there had seized all
his goods. Would not their Lordships take course to loose that arrest
from so much of his goods as might sustain his wife and children in some
tolerable way?”’ (Thirteenth session, 3d April.)
‘Garraway, Mayor the last year, deposed, “That to the best of his re-
membrance, he (Strafford) said, no good would be gotten till some of the
Aldermen were hanged.” While Strafford took vantage at the words, to the
best of my remembrance, Garraway turned shortly to him, and told out
punctually, “My Lord, you did say it!” Strafford thereupon, “He should
answer with as great truth, albeit not with so great confidence, as that
gentleman, to the best of his remembrance he did not speak so. But if he
did, he trusted their goodness would easily pardon such a rash and foolish
Word.” ”
‘Thursday, 8th April; session fourteenth. The twenty-eighth article
they passed. All being set, and the Deputy brought to the bar on his
knees, he was desired to say for himself what he would, that so the House
of Commons may sum-up all before the sentence.’ He craved time till to-
morrow. The Commons objected. ‘Yet the Lords, after some debate,
did grant it.’—
‘The matter was’ (sixteenth session), “Young Sir Harry Vane had fallen
by accident among his father's papers'—Ah yes, a well-known accident!
And now the question is, Will the Lords allow us to produce it? “The
Iords adjourn one hour large : at their return their decree was against
the expectation of all;'—an ambiguous decree, tending obliquely towards
refusal, or else new unknown periods of delay!
246 MiLSCEI.LANIES.
“At once the Commons began to grumble. Glyn posed him, On what
articles he would examine witnesses, then 2 They did not believe that he
wanted to examine witnesses, but put him to name the articles. He named
one,—another, a third, a fourth; and not being like to make ane end,
the Commons on both sides of the House rose in a fury, with a shout of
“Withdraw . Withdraw . Withdraw!”—got all to their feet, on with their
hats, cocked their beavers in the King's face. We all did fear it would
grow to a present tumult. They went all away in confusion. Strafford
slipped-off to his barge and to the Tower, glad to be gone lest he should
be torn in pieces; the King went home in silence; the Lords to their
house.’
Session sixteenth vanishes thus, in a flash of fire | Yes; and
the ‘sharp untunable voice' of Mr. O. Cromwell, member for
Cambridge, was in that shout of “Withdraw l’ and Mr. Cromwell
dashed-on his rusty beaver withal, and strode out so, in those
wide nostrils of his a kind of snort. And one Mr. Milton Sat in
his house, by St. Bride's Church, teaching grammar, writing Areo-
pagitics; and had dined that day, not perhaps without criticism
of the cookery. And it was all a living coloured Time, not a gray
vacant one; and had length, breadth and thickness, even as our
own has l—But now, also, is not that a miraculous Spyglass, that
Perceptive-Faculty, Soul, Intelligence, or whatsoever we call it, of
the Reverend Mr. Robert Baillie of Kilwinning? We still see by
it, things stranger than most preternaturalisms, and mere com-
monplace ‘apparitions,' could be. “Our Fathers, where are they?"
Why, there; there are our far-off Fathers, face to face; alive-and
yet not alive ; ah no, they are visible but unattainable, sunk in
the never-returning Past ! Thrice endeavouring, we cannot em-
brace them; ter manus effugit imago. The Centuries are transpa-
rent, then;–yes, more or less; but they are impermeable, im-
penetrable, no adamant so hard. It is strange. To be, To have
been : of all verbs the wonderfullest is that same. The ‘Time-
element, the “crystal prison '' Of a truth, to us Sons of Time,
it is the miracle of miracles—These thoughts are thrown-out for
the benefit of the curious.
One thing, meanwhile, is growing plain enough to everybody:
those fiery Commons, with their “Withdraw . Withdraw ſ” will
have the life of that poor prisoner. If not by free verdict of their
Lordships, then by bill of attainder of their own; by fair means,
or by less fair, Strafford has to die. “Intolerable pride and op-
pression cry to Heaven for vengeance.’ Yes, and Heaven has
heard; and the Earth now repeats it, in Westminster Hall here,
—nay, worse still, out in Palaceyard, with ‘horrible cries and im-
precations !' This noble baited lion shall not escape, but perish,
—be food for learned sergeants and the region kites | We will give
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER. 247
but one other glimpse of him: his last appearance in Westminster
Hall, that final Speech of his there; ‘which,' says Baillie, ‘you
have in print.' We have indeed : printed in Whitlocke, and very
copiously elsewhere and since;—probably the best of all Speeches,
everything considered, that has yet been printed in the English
tongue. All readers remember that passage,_that pause, with
tears in the “proud glooming countenance,’ at thought of “those
pledges a saint in Heaven left me.” But what a glare of new fatal
meaning does the last circumstance, or shadow of a circumstance,
which Baillie mentions, throw over it:
“He made a Speech large two hours and ane half. * * * To all
he repeated naught new, but the best of his former answers. And in
the end, after Some lashness and fagging, he made such ane pathetic ora-
tion, for ane half-hour, as ever comedian did upon a stage. The matter
and expression were exceeding brave: doubtless, if he had grace or civil
goodness, he is a most eloquent man. One passage made it most spoken
of: his breaking-off in weeping and silence when he spoke of his first
Wife. Some took it for a true defect of his memory; others, and the most
part, for a notable part of his rhetoric; some that true grief and remorse
at that remembrance had stopped his mouth. For they say that his first
Lady, the Earl of Clare's sister, being with child, and finding one of his
whore's letters, brought it to him, and chiding him therefor, he strook her
on the breast, whereof shortly she died.’
Such is the drama of Life, seen in Baillie of Kilwinning; a
thing of multifarious tragic and epic meanings, then as now. A
many-voiced tragedy and epos, yet with broad-based comic and
grotesque accompaniment; done by actors not in buskins;–ever
replete with elements of guilt and remorse, of pity, instruction
and fear ! It is now two-hundred years and odd months since
these Commons Members, shouting, “Withdraw . Withdraw "
took away the life of Thomas Wentworth Earl of Strafford; and
introduced, driven by necessity they knew little whither, horrid re-
bellions, as the phrase went, and suicidal wars into the bowels of
this country. On our horizon too, there loom now inevitabilities
no less stern ; one knows not sometimes whether not very near at
hand They had the Divine Right of Kings to settle, those unfor-
tunate ancestors of ours: Shall Charles Stuart and William Laud
alone have a soul and conscience in this Nation, under extant
circumstances; or shall others too have it? That had come now
to require settlement, that same ‘divine right;' and they, our brave
ancestors, like true stalwart hearts, did on hest of necessity man-
age to settle it, by cutting-off its head, if no otherwise.
Alas, we, their children, have got perhaps a still harder thing
to settle: the Divine Right of Squires. Did a God make this land
of Britain, and give it to us all, that we might live there by honest
248 MISCELLANIES.
labour; or did the Squires make it, and,-shut to the voice of any
God, open only to a Devil's voice in this matter, decide on giving
it to themselves alone? This is now the sad question and ‘divine
right' we, in this unfortunate century, have got to settle ! For
there is no end of settlements; there will never be an end; the
best settlement is but a temporary, partial one. Truly, all manner
of rights, and adjustments of work and wages, here below, do verge
gradually into error, into unbearable error, as the Time-flood bears
us onward; and many a right, which used to be a duty done, and
divine enough, turns out, in a new latitude of the Time-voyage, to
have grown now altogether undivine ! Turns out, when the fatal
hour and necessity for overhauling it arrives, to have been, for
some considerable while past, an imanity, a conventionality, a
hollow simulacrum of use-and-wont ; which, if it will still assert
itself as a ‘divine right, having now no divine duty to do, becomes
a diabolic wrong; and, by soft means or by sharp, has to be sent
travelling out of this world! Alas, ‘intolerabilities’ do now again
in this new century ‘cry to Heaven;’—or worse, do not cry, but
in low wide-spread moan, lie as perishing, as if ‘in Heaven there
was no ear for them, and on Earth no ear.’ ‘Eleven pence half-
penny a-week' in this world; and in the next world zero ! And
‘Sliding-Scales,' and endless wrigglings and wrestlings over mere
“Corn-Laws:” a Governing Class, hired (it appears) at the rate of
some fifty or seventy millions a-year, which not only makes no
attempt at governing, but will not, by any consideration, passionate
entreaty, or even menace as yet, be persuaded to eat its victuals,
shoot its partridges, and not strangle-out the general life by mis-
governing ! It cannot and it will not come to good.
We here quit Baillie ; we let his drop-scene fall; and finish,
though not yet in mid-course of his Great-Rébellion Drama. To
prevent disappointment, we ought to say, that this of Strafford is
considerably the best passage of his Book;-and indeed, generally,
once more, that the careless reader will not find much profit in
him; that except by reading with unusual intensity, even the his-
torical student may find less than he expects. As a true, rather
opulent, but very confused quarry, out of which some edifice might
in part be built, we leave him to those who have interest in such
matters.
249
DR. FRANCIA.!
[1843.]
THE confused South-American Revolution, and set of revolutions,
like the South-American Continent itself, is doubtless a great con-
fused phenomenon; worthy of better knowledge than men yet
have of it. Several books, of which we here name a few known to
us, have been written on the subject: but bad books mostly, and
productive of almost no effect. The heroes of South America have
not yet succeeded in picturing any image of themselves, much
less any true image of themselves, in the Cis-Atlantic mind or
memory.
Iturbide, ‘the Napoleon of Mexico,' a great man in that narrow
country, who was he? He made the thrice-celebrated “Plan of
Iguala;' a constitution of no continuance. He became Emperor
of Mexico, most serene ‘Augustin I. ;’ was deposed, banished to
Leghorn, to London; decided on returning;—landed on the shore
of Tampico, and was there met, and shot: this, in a vague sort, is
what the world knows of the Napoleon of Mexico, most serene
Augustin the First, most unfortunate Augustin the Last. He did
himself publish memoirs or memorials,” but few can read them.
Oblivion, and the deserts of Panama, have swallowed this brave
Don Augustin : vate caruit Sacro.
And Bolivar, ‘the Washington of Columbia, Liberator Bolivar,
1 FoREIGN QUARTERLY REVIEW, No. 62–R'uneral Discourse delivered on
occasion of celebrating the Obsequies of his late Ea.oellency the Perpetual Dic-
tator of the Republic of Paraguay, the Citizen Dr. José Gaspar Francia: by
Citizen the Rev. Manuel Antonio Perez, of the Church of the Incarnation, on
the 20th of October 1840. (In the British Packet and Argentine News, No. 813.
Buenos-Ayres, March 19, 1842.)
2. Essai. Historique sur la Révolution de Paraguay, et le Gouvernement
Dictatorial du Docteur Francia. Par MM. Rengger et Longchamp. Seconde
édition. Paris, 1827.
3. Letters on Paraguay. By J. P. and W. P. Robertson. 2 vols. Second
Edition. London, 1839.
4. Francia's Reign of Terror. By the same. London, 1839.
5. Letters on South America. By the same. 3 vols. London, 1843.
6. Travels in Chile and La Plata. By John Miers. 2 vols. London, 1826.
7. Memoirs of General Miller, in the Service of the Republic of Peru. 2 vols.
Second Edition. London, 1829.
* A Statement of some of the principal Events in the Public Life of Augustin
de Iturbide : written by Himself. London, 1843.
250 MISCELLANIES,
he too is gone without his fame. Melancholy lithographs repre-
sent to us a long-faced, square-browed man; of stern, considerate,
consciously considerate aspect, mildly aquiline form of nose; with
terrible angularity of jaw ; and dark deep eyes, somewhat too
close together (for which latter circumstance we earnestly hope
the lithograph alone is to blame): this is Liberator Dolivar —a
man of much hard fighting, hard riding, of manifold achievements,
distresses, heroisms and histrionisms in this world; a many-coum-
selled, much-enduring man; now dead and gone ;-of whom, ex-
cept that melancholy lithograph, the cultivated European public
knows as good as nothing. Yet did he not fly hither and thither,
often in the most desperate manner, with wild cavalry clad in
blankets, with War of Liberation ‘to the death ?’ Clad in blankets,
ponchos the South Americans call them : it is a square blanket,
with a short slit in the centre, which you draw over your head,
and so leave hanging: many a liberative cavalier has ridden, in
those hot climates, without further dress at all; and fought hand-
somely too, wrapping the blanket round his arm, when it came to
the charge.
With such cavalry, and artillery and infantry to match, Bolivar
has ridden, fighting all the way, through torrid deserts, hot mud-
Swamps, through ice-chasms beyond the curve of perpetual frost-
more miles than Ulysses ever sailed: let the coming Homers take
note of it. He has marched over the Andes, more than once ; a
feat analogous to Hannibal's ; and seemed to think little of it.
Often beaten, banished from the firm land, he always returned
again, truculently fought again. He gained, in the Cumana regions,
the “immortal victory’ of Calababo and several others; under him
was gained the finishing “immortal victory' of Ayacucho in Peru,
where Old Spain, for the last time, burnt powder in those lati-
tudes, and then fled without return. He was Dictator, Liberator,
almost Emperor, if he had lived. Some three times over did he,
in solemn Columbian parliament, lay down his Dictatorship with
Washington eloquence; and as often, on pressing request, take it
up again, being a man indispensable. Thrice, or at least twice,
did he, in different places, painfully construct a Free Constitu-
tion; consisting of ‘two chambers, and a supreme governor for
life with liberty to name his successor,’ the reasonablest demo-
cratic constitution you could well construct; and twice, or at least
once, did the people, on trial, declare it disagreeable. He was,
of old, well known in Paris; in the dissolute, the philosophico-
political and other circles there. He has shone in many a gay
Parisian soirée, this Simon Bolivar; and in his later years, in
autumn 1825, he rode triumphant into Potosi and the fabulous
DR. FRANCIA. 251
Inca Cities, with clouds of feathered Indians Somersaulting and
war-whooping round him,'—and “as the famed Cerro, metalliferous
‘ Mountain, came in sight, the bells all pealed out, and there was
“a thunder of artillery,’ says General Miller | If this is not a
Ulysses, Polytlas and Polymetis, a much-enduring and many-
counselled man; where was there one? Truly a Ulysses whose
history were worth its ink, had the Homer that could do it made
his appearance
Of General San Martin too, there will be something to be said.
General San Martin, when we last saw him, twenty years ago or
more, through the organs of the authentic stedfast Mr. Miers,
had a handsome house in Mendoza, and ‘ his own portrait, as I
‘ remarked, hung up between those of Napoleon and the Duke
‘ of Wellington.” In Mendoza, cheerful, mudbuilt, whitewashed
Town, seated at the eastern base of the Andes, “with its shady
public-walk well paved and swept ;’ looking out pleasantly, on
this hand, over wide horizons of Pampa Wilderness; pleasantly,
on that, to the Rock-chain, Cordillera they call it, of the sky-
piercing Mountains, capt in Snow, or with volcanic fumes issuing
from them : there dwelt General Ea;-Generalissimo San Martin,
ruminating past adventures over half the world; and had his por-
trait hung up between Napoleon's and the Duke of Wellington's.
Did the reader ever hear of San Martin's march over the Andes
into Chile 2 It is a feat worth looking at ; comparable, most
likely, to Hannibal's march over the Alps, while there was yet no
Simplon or Mont-Cénis highway; and it transacted itself in the
year 1817. South-American armies think little of picking their
way through the gullies of the Andes: so the Buenos-Ayres people,
having driven-out their own Spaniards, and established the reign
of freedom though in a precarious manner, thought it were now
good to drive the Spaniards out of Chile, and establish the reign
of freedom there also instead: whereupon San Martin, commander
at Mendoza, was appointed to do it. By way of preparation, for
he began from afar, San Martin, while an army is getting ready at
Mendoza, assembles “at the Fort of San Carlos by the Aguanda
river, some days’ journey to the south, all attainable tribes of the
Pehuenche Indians, to a solemn Palaver, so they name it, and
civic entertainment, on the esplanade there. The ceremonies and
deliberations, as described by General Miller, are somewhat sur-
prising: still more the concluding civic-feast; which lasts for three
days; which consists of horses' flesh for the solid part, and horses'
blood with ardent spirits ad libitum for the liquid, consumed with
such alacrity, with such results, as one may fancy. However, the
* Memoirs of General Mäller.
252 MISCELTANIES.
women had prudently removed all the arms beforehand; nay,
‘five or six of these poor women, taking it by turns, were always
“found in a sober state, watching over the rest;' so that compara-
tively little mischief was done, and only ‘one or two' deaths by
quarrel took place.
The Pehuenches having drunk their ardent-water and horses'
blood in this manner, and sworn eternal friendship to San Martin,
went home, and—communicated to his enemies, across the Andes,
the road he meant to take. This was what San Martin had fore-
seen and meant, the knowing man . He hastened his prepara-
tions, got his artillery slung on poles, his men equipt with knap-
Sacks and haversacks, his mules in readiness; and, in all stillness,
set forth from Mendoza by another road. Few things in late war,
according to General Miller, have been more noteworthy than this
march. The long straggling line of soldiers, six-thousand and
odd, with their quadrupeds and baggage, winding through the
heart of the Andes, breaking for a brief moment the old abysmal
Solitudes l—For you fare along, on some narrow roadway, through
stony labyrinths; huge rock-mountains hanging over your head,
on this hand ; and under your feet, on that, the roar of mountain-
cataracts, horror of bottomless chasms;–the very winds and echoes
howling on you in an almost preternatural manner. Towering
rock-barriers rise sky-high before you, and behind you, and around
you; intricate the outgate | The roadway is narrow; footing none
of the best. Sharp turns there are, where it will behove you to
mind your paces; one false step, and you will need no second ; in
the gloomy jaws of the abyss you vanish, and the spectral winds
howl requiem. Somewhat better are the suspension-bridges, made
of bamboo and leather, though they swing like see-saws: men are
stationed with lassos, to gin you dextrously, and fish you up from
the torrent, if you trip there.
Through this kind of country did San Martin march; straight
towards San Iago, to fight the Spaniards and deliver Chile. For
ammunition-wagons, he had sorras, sledges, canoe-shaped boxes,
made of dried bull's-hide. His cannons were carried on the back
of mules, each cannon on two mules judiciously harnessed : on
the packsaddle of your foremost mule there rested with firm girths
a long strong pole; the other end of which (forked end, we sup-
pose) rested, with like girths, on the packsaddle of the hindmost
mule; your cannon was slung with leathern straps on this pole,
and so travelled, swaying and dangling, yet moderately secure.
In the knapsack of each soldier was eight days’ provender, dried
beef ground into Snuff powder, with a modicum of pepper, and
some slight seasoning of biscuit or maize-meal; ‘store of Onions,
DR. FRANCIA. 253
of garlic,’ was not wanting : Paraguay tea col.ld be boiled at even-
tide, by fire of scrub-bushes, or almost of rock-lichens or dried
mule-dung. No further baggage was permitted: each soldier lay,
at night, wrapt in his poncho, with his knapsack for pillow, under
the canopy of heaven; lullabied by hard travail; and sank soon
enough into steady nose-melody, into the foolishest rough colt-
dance of unimaginable Dreams. Had he not left much behind
him in the Pampas, mother, mistress, what not ; and was like to
find somewhat, if he ever got across to Chile living 2 What an
entity, one of those night-leaguers of San Martin; all steadily
snoring there, in the heart of the Andes, under the eternal stars
Wayworn sentries with difficulty keep themselves awake; tired
mules chew barley rations, or doze on three legs; the feeble watch-
fire will hardly kindle a cigar; Canopus and the Southern Cross
glitter down; and all snores steadily, begirt by granite deserts,
looked-on by the Constellations in that manner | San Martin's
improvident soldiers ate-out their week's rations almost in half
the time; and for the last three days, had to rush on, spurred by
hunger: this also the knowing Sam Martin had foreseen ; and
knew that they could bear it, these rugged Guachos of his; nay
that they would march all the faster for it. On the eighth day,
hungry as wolves, swift and sudden as a torrent from the mountains,
they disembogued ; straight towards San Iago, to the astomish-
ment of men;–struck the doubly astonished Spaniards into dire
misgivings; and then, in pitched fight, after due manoeuvres, into
total defeat on the ‘plains of Maypo, and again, positively for
the last time, on the plains or heights of ‘Chacabuco ;' and com-
pleted the ‘deliverance of Chile,’ as was thought, forever and a
day.
Alas, the ‘deliverance' of Chile was but commenced; very far
from completed. Chile, after many more deliverances, up to this
hour, is always but “delivered’ from one set of evil-doers to an-
other set !—San Martin's manoeuvres to liberate Peru, to unite
Peru and Chile, and become some Washington-Napoleon of the
same, did not prosper so well. The suspicion of mankind had to
rouse itself; Liberator Bolivar had to be called in ; and some revo-
lution or two to take place in the interim. San Martin sees him-
self peremptorily, though with courtesy, complimented over the
Andes again; and in due leisure, at Mendoza, hangs his portrait
between Napoleon's and Wellington's. Mr. Miers considered him
a fairspoken, obliging, if somewhat artful man. Might not the
Chilenos as well have taken him for their Napoleon 2 They have
gone farther, and, as yet, fared little better
The world-famous General O'Higgins, for example, he, after
254 MISCELLANIES.
some revolution or two, became Director of Chile ; but so terribly
hampered by ‘class-legislation' and the like, what could he make
of it? Almost nothing ! O'Higgins is clearly of Irish breed; and,
though a Chileno born, and “natural son of Dom Ambrosio O'Hig-
gins, formerly the Spanish Viceroy of Chile, carries his Hibernian-
ism in his very face. A most cheery, jovial, buxom countenance,
radiant with pepticity, good humour and manifold effectuality in
peace and war ! Of his battles and adventures let some luckier
‘epic-writer sing or speak. One thing we Foreign Reviewers will
always remember : his father's immense merits towards Chile in
the matter of Highways. Till Don Ambrosio arrived to govern
Chile, some half-century ago, there probably was not a made road
of ten miles long from Panama to Cape Horn. Indeed, except his
roads, we fear there is hardly any yet. One omits the old Inca
causeways, as too narrow (being only three feet broad), and alto-
gether unfrequented in the actual ages. Don Ambrosio made,
with incredible industry and perseverance and skill, in every direc-
tion, roads, roads. From San Iago to Valparaiso, where only sure-
footed mules with their packsaddles carried goods, there can now
wooden-axled cars loud-sounding, or any kind of vehicle, commo-
diously roll. It was he that shaped these passes through the
Andes, for most part; hewed them out from mule-tracks into roads,
certain of them. And think of his casuchas. Always on the higher
inhospitable solitudes, at every few miles' distance, stands a trim
brick cottage, or casucha, into which the forlorn traveller introduc-
ing himself, finds covert and grateful safety; may food and refec-
tion,-for there are “iron boxes' of pounded beef or other pro-
vender, iron boxes of charcoal ; to all which the traveller, having
bargained with the Post-office authorities, carries a key." Steel
and tinder are not wanting to him, nor due iron skillet, with water
from the stream : there he, striking a light, cooks hoarded victual
at eventide, amid the lonely pinnacles of the world, and blesses
Governor O'Higgins. With ‘both hands,’ it may be hoped,—if
there is vivacity of mind in him :
Had you seen this road before it was made,
You would lift both your hands, and bless General Wade 1
It affects one with real pain to hear from Mr. Miers, that the
War of Liberty has half ruined these O'Higgins casuchas. Patriot
soldiers, in want of more warmth than the charcoal-box could yield,
have not scrupled to tear-down the door, door-case, or whatever
wooden thing could be come at, and burn it, on the spur of the
moment. The storm-stayed traveller, who sometimes, in threaten-
1 Miers,
L) R. FRANCIA. 255
ing weather, has to linger here for days, “for fifteen days together,’
does not lift both his hands, and bless the Patriot soldier
Nay, it appears, the O'Higgins roads, even in the plain country,
have not, of late years, been repaired, or in the least attended
to, so distressed was the finance department; and are now fast
Verging towards impassability and the condition of mule-tracks
again. What a set of animals are men and Chilenos | If an
O'Higgins did not now and then appear among them, what would
become of the unfortunates ? Can you wonder that an O'Higgins
Sometimes loses temper with them ; shuts the persuasive outspread
hand, clutching some sharpest hide-whip, some terrible sword of
justice or gallows-lasso therewith, instead, and becomes a Dr.
Francia, now and then | Both the O'Higgins and the Francia, it
seems probable, are phases of the same character; both, one be-
gins to fear, are indispensable from time to time, in a world inhab-
ited by men and Chilenos'
As to O'Higgins the Second, Patriot, Natural-son O'Higgins, he,
as we said, had almost no success whatever as a governor; being
hampered by class-legislation. Alas, a governor in Chile cannot
succeed. A governor there has to resign himself to the want of
success; and should say, in cheerful interrogative tone, like that
Pope elect, who showing himself on the balcony, was greeted with
mere howls, “Non piacemmo al popolo 3"—and thereupon proceed
cheerfully to the newt fact. Governing is a rude business every-
where ; but in South America it is of quite primitive rudeness :
they have no parliamentary way of changing ministries as yet; no-
thing but the rude primitive way of hanging the old ministry on
gibbets, that the new may be installed ! Their government has
altered its name, says the sturdy Mr. Miers, rendered sulky by
what he saw there : altered its name, but its nature continues as
before. Shameless peculation, malversation, that is their govern-
ment: oppression formerly by Spanish officials, now by native ha-
ciendados, land-proprietors, the thing called justice still at a great
distance from them, says the sulky Mr. Miers —Yes, but coming
always, answer we ; every new gibbeting of an old ineffectual minis-
try bringing justice somewhat nearer Nay, as Miers himself has
to admit, certain improvements are already indisputable. Trade
everywhere, in spite of multiplex confusions, has increased, is in-
creasing: the days of somnolent monopoly and the old Acapulco
Ship are gone, quite over the horizon. Two good, or partially good
measures, the very necessity of things has everywhere brought
about in those poor countries: clipping of the enormous bat-wings
of the Clergy, and emancipating of the Slaves. Bat-wings, we say;
for truly the South-American clergy had grown to be as a kind of
256 * MISCELLANIES.
bat-vampires:–readers have heard of that huge South-American
bloodsucker, which fixes its bill in your circulating vital-fluid as
you lie asleep, and there sucks; waving you with the motion of its
detestable leather wings into ever deeper sleep; and so drinking,
till it is satisfied, and you—do not awaken any more | The South-
American governments, all in natural feud with the old church-dig-
nitaries, and likewise all in great straits for cash, have everywhere
confiscated the monasteries, cashiered the disobedient dignitaries,
melted the superfluous church-plate into piastres; and, on the
whole, shorn the wings of their vampire; so that if it still suck, you
will at least have a chance of awakening before death !—Then
again, the very want of soldiers of liberty led to the emancipating
of blacks, yellows and other coloured persons: your mulatto, nay
your negro, if well drilled, will stand fire as well as another.
Poor South-American emancipators; they began with Volney,
Raynal and Company, at that gospel of Social Contract and the
Rights of Man; under the most unpropitious circumstances; and
have hitherto got only to the length we see Nay now, it seems.
they do possess “universities, which are at least schools with other
than monk teachers; they have got libraries, though as yet almost
nobody reads them,-and our friend Miers, repeatedly knocking at
all doors of the Grand Chile National Library, could never to this
hour discover where the key lay, and had to content himself with
looking-in through the windows." Miers, as already hinted, de-
siderates unspeakable improvements in Chile ;-desiderates, in-
deed, as the basis of all, an immense increase of soap-and-water.
Yes, thou sturdy Miers, dirt is decidedly to be removed, whatever
improvements, temporal or spiritual, may be intended next | AC-
cording to Miers, the open, still more the secret personal nastiness
of those remote populations, rises almost towards the sublime.
Finest silks, gold brocades, pearl necklaces and diamond ear-drops,
are no security against it: alas, all is not gold that glitters; some-
what that glitters is mere putrid fish-skin | Decided, enormously
increased appliance of soap-and-water, in all its branches, with all
its adjuncts; this, according to Miers, would be an improvement.
He says also (‘in his haste, as is probable, like the Hebrew Psalm-
ist), that all Chileno men are liars; all, or to appearance, all! A
people that uses almost no soap, and speaks almost no truth, but
goes about in that fashion, in a state of personal nastiness, and
also of Spiritual nastiness, approaching the sublime; such people
is not easy to govern well!—
But undoubtedly by far the notablest of all these South-Ameri-
* Travels ºn Chile.
DR. FRANCIA. . 257
can phenomena is Dr. Francia and his Dictatorship in Paraguay;
concerning whom, and which, we have now more particularly to
speak. Francia and his ‘reign of terror' have excited some inter-
est, much vague wonder in this country; and especially given a
great shock to constitutional feeling. One would rather wish to
know Dr. Francia;-but unhappily one cannot Out of such a
murk of distracted shadows and rumours, in the other hemisphere
of the world, who would pretend at present to decipher the real
portraiture of Dr. Francia and his Life 2 None of us can. A few
credible features, wonderful enough, original enough in our consti-
tutional time, will perhaps to the impartial eye disclose themselves;
these, with some endeavour to interpret these, may lead certain
readers into various reflections, constitutional and other, not en-
tirely without benefit.
Certainly, as we say, nothing could well shock the constitutional
feeling of mankind, as Dr. Francia has done. Dionysius the tyrant
of Syracuse, and indeed the whole breed of tyrants, one hoped,
had gone many hundred years ago, with their reward; and here,
under our own nose, rises a new ‘tyrant,' claiming also his reward
from us! Precisely when constitutional liberty was beginning to
be understood a little, and we flattered ourselves that by due bal-
lot-boxes, by due registration-courts, and bursts of parliamentary
eloquence, something like a real National Palaver would be got-up
in those countries, arises this tawny-visaged, lean, inexorable Dr.
Francia; claps you an embargo on all that ; says to constitutional
liberty, in the most tyrannous manner, Hitherto, and no farther
It is an undeniable, though an almost incredible fact, that Francia,
a lean private individual, Practitioner of Law, and Doctor of Di-
vinity, did, for twenty or near thirty years, stretch out his rod over
the foreign commerce of Paraguay, saying to it, Cease ! The ships
lay high and dry, their pitchless seams all yawning on the clay-
banks of the Parana; and no man could trade but by Francia's
license. If any person entered Paraguay, and the Doctor did not
like his papers, his talk, conduct, or even the cut of his face,—it
might be the worse for such person 1 Nobody could leave Para-
guay on any pretext whatever. It mattered not that you were man
of Science, astronomer, geologer, astrologer, wizard of the north ;
Francia heeded none of these things. The whole world knows of
M. Aimé Bonpland; how Francia seized him, descending on his
tea-establishment in Entre Rios, like an obscene vulture, and car-
ried him into the interior, contrary even to the law of nations; how
the great Humboldt and other high persons expressly applied to
Dr. Francia, calling on him, in the name of human science, and as
it were under penalty of reprobation, to liberate M. Bonpland; and
WOL. IV. S
258 MISCELLANIES.
how Dr. Francia made no answer, and M. Bonpland did not return
to Europe, and indeed has never yet returned. It is also admitted
that Dr. Francia had a gallows, had jailors, law-fiscals, officials;
and executed, in his time, ‘upwards of forty persons,’ Some of
them in a very summary manner. Liberty of private judgment,
unless it kept its mouth shut, was at an end in Paraguay. Para-
guay lay under interdict, cut-off for above twenty years from the
rest of the world, by a new Dionysius of Paraguay. All foreign
commerce had ceased; how much more all domestic constitution-
building ! These are strange facts. Dr. Francia, we may conclude
at least, was not a common man but an uncommon.
How unfortunate that there is almost no knowledge of him pro-
curable at present | Next to none. The Paraguenos can in many
cases spell and read, but they are not a literary people; and, in-
deed, this Doctor was, perhaps, too awful a practical phenomenon
to be calmly treated of in the literary way. Your Breughel paints
his sea-storm, not while the ship is labouring and cracking, but
after he has got to shore, and is safe under cover ! Our Buenos-
Ayres friends, again, who are not without habits of printing, lay at
a great distance from Francia, under great obscurations of quarrel
and controversy with him ; their constitutional feeling shocked to
an extreme degree by the things he did. To them, there could
little intelligence float down, on those long muddy waters, through
those vast distracted countries, that was not more or less of a dis-
tracted nature; and then from Buenos-Ayres over into Europe,
there is another long tract of distance, liable to new distractions.
Francia, Dictator of Paraguay, is, at present, to the European mind,
little other than a chimera; at best, the statement of a puzzle, to
which the solution is still to seek. As the Paraguenos, though not
a literary people, can many of them spell and write, and are not
without a discriminating sense of true and untrue, why should not
some real Life of Francia, from those parts, be still possible ! If a
writer of genius arise there, he is hereby invited to the enterprise.
Surely in all places your writing genius ought to rejoice over an
acting genius, when he falls-in with such ; and say to himself:
“Here or nowhere is the thing for me to write of ! Why do I keep
pen-and-ink at all, if not to apprise men of this singular acting
genius, and the like of him 2 My fine-arts and aesthetics, my epics,
literatures, poetics, if I will think of it, do all at bottom mean
either that or else nothing whatever !”
Hitherto our chief source of information as to Francia is a little
Book, the Second on Our List, set forth in French some sixteen
years ago, by the Messrs. Rengger and Longchamp. Translations
into various languages were executed:—of that into English, it is
IDR. FRANCIA. 259
our painful duty to say that no man, except in case of extreme
necessity, shall use it as reading. The translator, having little fear
of human detection, and seemingly none at all of divine or diabolic,
has done his work even unusually ill; with ignorance, with care-
lessness, with dishonesty prepense ; coolly omitting whatsoever he
saw that he did not understand:—poor man, if he yet survive, let
him reform in time ! He has made a French book, which was
itself but lean and dry, into the most wooden of English false
books; doing evil as he could in that matter;-and claimed wages
for it, as if the feat deserved wages first of all ! Reformation, even
on the small scale, is highly necessary.
The Messrs. Rengger and Longchamp were, and we hope still
are, two Swiss Surgeons; who in the year 1819 resolved on carry-
ing their talents into South America, into Paraguay, with views to-
wards “natural history,' among other things. After long towing and
struggling in those Parana floods, and distracted provinces, after
much detention by stress of weather and of war, they arrived ac-
cordingly in Francia's country; but found that, without Francia's
leave, they could not quit it again. Francia was now a Dionysius
of Paraguay. Paraguay had grown to be, like some mousetraps
and other contrivances of art and nature, easy to enter, impossible
to get out of Our brave Surgeons, our brave Rengger (for it is he
alone of the two that speaks and writes) reconciled themselves;
were set to doctoring of Francia's soldiery, of Francia's self; col-
lected plants and beetles; and, for six years, endured their lot
rather handsomely: at length, in 1825, the embargo was for a time
lifted, and they got home. This Book was the consequence. It
is not a good book, but at that date there was, on the subject, no
other book at all; nor is there yet any other better, or as good.
We consider it to be authentic, veracious, moderately accurate;
though lean and dry, it is intelligible, rational; in the French origi-
nal, not unreadable. We may say it embraces, up to the present date,
all of importance that is yet known in Europe about the Doctor
Despot; add to this its indisputable brevity; the fact that it can be
read sooner by several hours than any other Dr. Francia: these are
its excellences, considerable, though wholly of a comparative sort.
After all, brevity is the soul of wit! There is an endless merit
in a man's knowing when to have done. The stupidest man, if he
will be brief in proportion, may fairly claim some hearing from us :
he too, the stupidest man, has seen something, heard something,
which is his own, distinctly peculiar, never seen or heard by any
man in this world before; let him tell us that, and if it were pos-
sible, nothing more than that, he, brief in proportion, shall be
welcome !
260 MISCELLANIES.
The Messrs. Robertson, with their Francia's Reign of Terror,
and other Books on South America, have been much before the
world of late; and failed not of a perusal from this Reviewer;
whose next sad duty it now is to say a word about them. The
Messrs. Robertson, some thirty or five-and-thirty years ago, were
two young Scotchmen, from the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, as
would seem; who, under fair auspices, set-out for Buenos-Ayres,
and thence for Paraguay, and other quarters of that remote con-
tinent, in the way of commercial adventure. Being young men of
vivacity and open eyesight, they surveyed with attentive view
those convulsed regions of the world; wherein it was evident that
revolution raged not a little; but also that precious metals, cow-
hides, Jesuits' bark, and multiplex commodities, were nevertheless
extant; and iron or brazen implements, ornaments, cotton and
woollen clothing, and British manufactures not a few, were objects
of desire to mankind. The Brothers Robertson, acting on these
facts, appear to have prospered, to have extensively flourished in
their commerce; which they gradually extended up the River
Plate, to the city of the Seven Streams or Currents (Corrientes so-
called), and higher even to Assumpcion, metropolis of Paraguay;
in which latter place, so extensive did the commercial interests
grow, it seemed at last expedient that one or both of the prosper-
ous Brothers should take up his personal residence. Personal
residence accordingly they did take up, one or both of them, and
maintain, in a fluctuating way, now in this city, now in that, of
the De la Plata, Parana or Paraguay country, for a considerable
space of years. How many years, in precise arithmetic, it is im-
possible, from these inextricably complicated documents now be-
fore us, to ascertain. In Paraguay itself, in Assumpcion city itself,
it is very clear, the Brothers Robertson did, successively or simul-
taneously, in a fluctuating inextricable manner, live for certain
years; and occasionally saw Dr. Francia with their own eyes,
though, to them or others, he had not yet become notable.
Mountains of cow and other hides, it would appear, quitted
those countries by movement of the Brothers Robertson, to be
worn-out in Europe as tanned boots and horse-harness, with more
or less satisfaction,-not without due profit to the merchants, we
shall hope. About the time of Dr. Francia's beginning his ‘reign
of terror,” or earlier it may be (for there, are no dates in these in-
extricable documents), the Messrs. Robertson were lucky enough
to take final farewell of Paraguay, and carry their commercial en-
terprises into other quarters of that vast continent, where the
reign was not of terror. Their voyagings, counter voyagings, com-
ings and goings, seem to have been extensive, frequent, inextrica-
DR, FRANCIA. 261
bly complex; to Europe, to Tucuman, to Glasgow, to Chile, to Las-
wade and elsewhither; too complex for a succinct intelligence, as
that of our readers has to be at present. Sufficient for us to know,
that the Messrs. Robertson did bodily, and for good, return to
their own country some few years since ; with what net result of
cash is but dimly adumbrated in these documents; certainly with
some increase of knowledge, had the unfolding of it but been
brief in proportion Indisputably the Messrs. Robertson had
somewhat to tell: their eyes had seen some new things, of which
their hearts and understandings had taken hold more or less. In
which circumstances the Messrs. Robertson decided on publish-
ing a Book. Arrangements being made, Two Volumes of Letters
on Paraguay came out, with due welcome from the world, in 1839.
We have read these Letters for the first time lately: a Book of
somewhat aqueous structure: immeasurably thinner than one could
have wished; otherwise not without merit. It is written in an
offhand, free-flowing, very artless, very incorrect style of language,
of thought, and of conception ; breathes a cheerful, eupeptic, so-
cial spirit, as of adventurous South-American Britons, worthy to
succeed in business; gives one, here and there, some visible con-
crete feature, some lively glimpse of those remote sunburnt coun-
tries; and has throughout a kind of bantering humour or quasi-
humour, a joviality and healthiness of heart, which is comfortable
to the reader, in some measure. A Book not to be despised in
these dull times: one of that extensive class of books which a
reader can peruse, so to speak, “with One eye shut and the other
not open;' a considerable luxury for some readers. These Letters
on Paraguay meeting, as would seem, a unanimous approval, it was
now determined by the Messrs. Robertson that they would add a
Third Volume, and entitle it Dr. Francia's Reign of Terror. They
did so, and this likewise the present Reviewer has read. Unluckily
the Authors had, as it were, nothing more whatever to say about
Dr. Francia, or next to nothing; and under this condition, it must
be owned they have done their Book with what success was well
possible. Given a cubic inch of respectable Castile soap, To lather
it up in water so as to fill one puncheon wine-measure: this is the
problem; let a man have credit, of its kind, for doing his problem!
The Messrs. Robertson have picked almost every fact of signifi.
cance from Rengger and Longchamp, adding some not very signifi-
cant reminiscences of their own; this is the square inch of soap :
you lather it up in Robertsonian loquacity, joviality, Commercial-
Inn banter, Leading-Article philosophy, or other aqueous vehicles,
till it fills the puncheon, the Volume of four-hundred pages, and
say “There !” The public, it would seem, did not fling even this
262 MISCELLANIES,
in the face of the venders, but bought it as a puncheon filled; and
the consequences are already here: Three Volumes more on South
America, from the same assiduous Messrs. Robertson | These also,
in his eagerness, this present Reviewer has read; and has, alas, to
say that they are simply the old volumes in new vocables, under a
new figure. Intrinsically all that we did not already know of these
Three Volumes, there are craftsmen of no great eminence who
will undertake to write it in one sheet ! Yet there they stand,
Three solid-looking Volumes, a thousand printed pages and up-
wards; three puncheons more lathered out of the old square inch
of Castile soap ! It is too bad. A necessitous ready-witted Irish-
man sells you an indifferent gray-horse; steals it overnight, paints
it black, and sells it you again on the morrow ; he is haled before
judges, sharply cross-questioned, tried and almost executed, for
such adroitness in horse-flesh : but there is no law yet as to
books
M. de la Condamine, about a century ago, was one of a world-
famous company that went into those equinoctial countries, and
for the space of nine or ten years did exploits there. From Quito
to Cuença, he measured you degrees of the meridian, climbed
mountains, took observations, had adventures; wild Creoles op-
posing Spanish nescience to human science ; wild Indians throw-
ing down your whole cargo of instruments occasionally in the
heart of remote deserts, and striking work there." M. de la Con-
damine saw bull-fights at Cuença, five days running; and on the
fifth day, saw his unfortunate too audacious surgeon massacred by
popular tumult there. He sailed the entire length of the Ama-
zons River, in Indian canoes; over narrow Pongo rapids, over
infinite mud-waters, the infinite tangled wilderness with its reek-
ing desolation on the right hand of him and on the left;-and
had mischances, adventures, and took celestial observations all the
way, and made remarks | Apart altogether from his meridian de-
grees, which belong in a very strict sense to World-history and
the advancement of all Adam's sinful posterity, this man and his
party saw and suffered many hundred times as much of mere ro-
mance adventure as the Messrs. Robertson did:—Madame Godin's
passage down the Amazons, and frightful life-in-death amid the
howling forest-labyrinths, and wrecks of her dead friends, amounts
to more adventure of itself than was ever dreamt of in the Robert-
sonian world. And of all this M. de la Condamine gives pertinent,
lucid and conclusively intelligible and credible account in one very
small octavo volume; not quite the eighth part of what the Messrs.
* Condamine : Relation d'un Voyage dans l'Intérieur de l’Amérique méri-
dionale.
DR. FRANCIA. 263
Robertson have already written, in a not pertinent, not lucid or
conclusively intelligible and credible manner. And the Messrs.
Robertson talk repeatedly, in their last Volumes, of writing still
other Volumes on Chile, “if the public will encourage.’ The Pub-
lic will be a monstrous fool if it do. The Public ought to stipulate
first, that the real new knowledge forthcoming there about Chile
be separated from the knowledge or ignorance already known;
that the preliminary question be rigorously put, Are several vo-
lumes the space to hold it, or a small fraction of one volume?
On the whole, it is a sin, good reader, though there is no Act
of Parliament against it; an indubitable malefaction or crime.
No mortal has a right to wag his tongue, much less to wag his
pen, without saying something: he knows not what mischief he
does, past computation; scattering words without meaning, to
afflict the whole world yet, before they cease ! For thistle-down
flies abroad on all winds and airs of wind : idle thistles, idle dan-
delions, and other idle products of Nature or the human mind,
propagate themselves in that way; like to cover the face of the
earth, did not man's indignant providence, with reap-hook, with
rake, with autumnal steel-and-tinder, intervene. It is frightful to
think how every idle volume flies abroad like an idle globular
downbeard, embryo of new millions; every word of it a potential
seed of infinite new downbeards and volumes: for the mind of
man is voracious, is feracious; germinative, above all things, of
the downbeard species Why, the Author-corps in Great Britain,
every soul of them inclined to grow mere dandelions if permitted,
is now supposed to be about ten thousand strong; and the read-
ing-corps, who read merely to escape from themselves, with one
eye shut and the other not open, and will put-up with almost any
dandelion, or thing which they can read without opening both their
eyes, amounts to twenty-seven millions all but a few O could
the Messrs. Robertson, spirited, articulate-speaking men, once
know well in what a comparatively blessed mood you close your
brief, intelligent, conclusive M. de la Condamine, and feel that
you have passed your evening well and nobly, as in a temple of
wisdom, not ill and disgracefully, as in brawling tavern supper-
rooms, with fools and noisy persons,—ah, in that case, perhaps
the Messrs. Robertson would write their new Work on Chile in
part of a volume !
But enough of this Robertsonian department; which we must
leave to the Fates and Supreme Providences. These spirited,
articulate-speaking Robertsons are far from the worst of their
kind; nay, among the best, if you will;-only unlucky in this
case, in coming across the autumnal steel and tinder | Let it
264 MISCELLANIES.
cease to rain angry sparks on them : enough now, and more than
enough. To cure that unfortunate department by philosophical
Criticism—the attempt is most vain. Who will dismount, on a
hasty journey, with the day declining, to attack mosquito-swarms
with the horsewhip? Spur swiftly through them ; breathing per-
haps some pious prayer to Heaven. By the horsewhip they can-
not be killed. Drain-out the swamps where they are bred,—Ah,
couldst thou do something towards that! And in the mean while :
How to get on with this of Dr. Francia?
The materials, as our reader sees, are of the miserablest : mere
intricate inanity (if we except poor wooden Rengger), and little
more ; not facts, but broken shadows of facts; clouds of confused
bluster and jargon;–the whole still more bewildered in the Ro-
bertsons, by what we may call a running shriek of constitutional
denunciation, “sanguinary tyrant,' and so forth. How is any pic-
ture of Francia to be fabricated out of that? Certainly, first of
all, by omission of the running shriek' This latter we shall totally
omit. Francia, the sanguinary tyrant, was not bound to look at
the world through Rengger's eyes, through Parish Robertson's
eyes, but faithfully through his own eyes. We are to consider
that, in all human likelihood, this Dionysius of Paraguay did mean
something; and then to ask in quietness, What? The running
shriek once hushed, perhaps many things will compose them-
selves, and straggling fractions of information, almost infinitesi-
mally small, may become unexpectedly luminous !
An unscientific Cattle-breeder and tiller of the earth, in some
nameless chaora not far from the City of Assumpcion, was the
Father of this remarkable human individual; and seems to have
evoked him into being some time in the year 1757. The man's
name is not known to us; his very nation is a point of contro-
versy: Francia himself gave him out for an immigrant of French
extraction; the popular belief was, that he had wandered over
from Brazil. Portuguese or French, or both in one, he produced
this human individual, and had him christened by the name of
José Gaspar Rodriguez Francia, in the year abovementioned. Ro-
driguez, no doubt, had a Mother too; but her name also, nowhere
found mentioned, must be omitted in this delineation. Her name,
and all her fond maternities, and workings and sufferings, good
brown lady, are sunk in dumb forgetfulness; and buried there
along with her, under the twenty-fifth parallel of Southern Lati-
tude; and no British reader is required to interfere with them 1
José Rodriguez must have been a loose-made tawny creature,
much given to taciturn reflection; probably to crying humours,
DR. FRANCIA. 265
with fits of vehement ill-nature: such a subject, it seemed to the
parent Francia cautiously reflecting on it, would, of all attainable
trades, be suitablest for preaching the Gospel, and doing the Di-
vine Offices, in a country like Paraguay. There were other young
Francias; at least one sister and one brother in addition; of whom
the latter by and by went mad. The Francias, with their adust
character, and vehement French-Portuguese blood, had perhaps
all a kind of aptitude for madness. The Dictator himself was sub-
ject to the terriblest fits of hypochondria, as your adust “men of
genius' too frequently are The lean Rodriguez, we fancy, may
have been of a devotional turn withal; born half a century earlier,
he had infallibly been so. Devotional or not, he shall be a Priest,
and do the Divine Offices in Paraguay, perhaps in a very unex-
pected way.
Rodriguez having learned his hornbooks and elementary
branches at Assumpcion, was accordingly despatched to the Uni-
versity of Cordova in Tucuman, to pursue his curriculum in that
seminary. So far we know, but almost no farther. What kind of
curriculum it was, what lessons, spiritual spoonmeat, the poor lank
sallow boy was crammed with, in Cordova High Seminary; and
how he took to it, and pined or throve on it, is entirely uncertain.
Lank sallow boys in the Tucuman and other high seminaries are
often dreadfully ill-dealt with, in respect of their spiritual spoon-
meat, as times go Spoonpoison you might often call it rather:
as if the object were to make them Mithridateses, able to live on
poison 2 Which may be a useful art too, in its kind? Nay, in
fact, if we consider it, these high seminaries and establishments
exist there, in Tucuman and elsewhere, not for that lank sallow
boy's special purposes, but for their own wise purposes; they were
made and put together, a long while since, without taking the
smallest counsel of the sallow boy | Frequently they seem to say
to him, all along: “This precious thing that lies in thee, O sallow
boy, of ‘genius' so-called, it may to thee and to eternal Nature be
precious; but to us and to temporary Tucuman it is not precious,
but pernicious, deadly: we require thee to quit this, or expect
penalties " And yet the poor boy, how can he quit it; eternal
Nature herself, from the depths of the Universe, ordering him to
go on with it? From the depths of the Universe, and of his own
Soul, latest revelation of the Universe, he is, in a silent, imper-
ceptible, but irrefragable manner, directed to go on with it, and
has to go, though under penalties. Penalties of very death, or
worse ! Alas, the poor boy, so willing to obey temporary Tucu-
mans, and yet unable to disobey eternal Nature, is truly to be
pitied. Thou shalt be Rodriguez Francial cries Nature, and the
266 MISCELLANIES.
poor boy to himself. Thou shalt be Ignatius Loyola, Friar Pon-
deroso, Don Fatpauncho Usandwonto ! cries Tucuman. The poor
creature's whole boyhood is one long lawsuit: Rodriguez Francia
against All Persons in general. It is so in Tucuman, so in most
places. You cannot advise effectually into what high Seminary he
had best be sent; the only safe way is to bargain beforehand, that
he have force born with him sufficient to make itself good against
all persons in generall
Be this as it may, the lean Francia prosecutes his studies at
Cordova, waxes gradually taller towards new destinies. Rodriguez
Francia, in some kind of Jesuit skullcap and black college Serge
gown, a lank rawboned creature, stalking with a downlook through
the irregular public streets of Cordova in those years, with an in-
finitude of painful unspeakabilities in the interior of him, is an
interesting object to the historical mind. So much is unspeak-
able, O Rodriguez; and it is a most strange Universe this thou
hast been born into ; and the theorem of Ignatius Loyola and Don
Fatpauncho Usandwonto seems to me to hobble somewhat! Much
is unspeakable; lying within one, like a dark lake of doubt, of
Acherontic dread, leading down to Chaos itself. Much is unspeak-
able, answers Francia; but somewhat also is speakable, this for
example: That I will not be a Priest in Tucuman in these circum-
stances; that I should like decidedly to be a secular person rather,
were it even a Lawyer rather | Francia, arrived at man's years,
changes from Divinity to Law. Some say it was in Divinity that
he graduated, and got his Doctor's hat ; Rengger says, Divinity ;
the Robertsons, likelier to be incorrect, call him Doctor of Laws.
To our present readers it is all one, or nearly so. Rodriguez
quitted the Tucuman Alma Mater, with some beard on his chin,
and reappeared in Assumpcion to look-out for practice at the bar.
What Rodriguez had contrived to learn, or grow to, under this
his Alma Mater in Cordova, when he quitted her? The answer is
a mere guess; his curriculum, we again say, is not yet known.
Some faint smattering of Arithmetic, or the everlasting laws of
Numbers; faint smattering of Geometry, everlasting laws of
Shapes; these things, we guess, not altogether in the dark, Rodri-
guez did learn, and found extremely remarkable. Curious enough:
That round Globe put into that round Drum, to touch it at the
ends and all round, it is precisely as if you clapt 2 into the in-
side of 3, not a jot more, not a jot less: wonder at it, O Francia;
for in fact it is a thing to make one pause ! Old Greek Archi-
medeses, Pythagorases, dusky Indians, old nearly as the hills,
detected such things; and they have got across into Paraguay,
into this brain of thine, thou happy Francia. How is it too,
DR. FRANCIA. 267
that the Almighty Maker's Planets run, in those heavenly spaces,
in paths which are conceivable in thy poor human head as Sec-
tions of a Cone? The thing thou conceivest as an Ellipsis, the
Almighty Maker has set his Planets to roll in that. Clear proof,
which neither Loyola nor Usandwonto can contravene, that Thou
too art denizen of this Universe; that Thou too, in some incon-
ceivable manner, wert present at the Council of the Gods !—Faint
Smatterings of such things Francia did learn in Tucuman. End-
less heavy fodderings of Jesuit theology, poured on him and round
him by the wagonload, incessantly, and year after year, he did
not learn; but left flying there as shot-rubbish. On the other
hand, some slight inkling of human grammatical vocables, espe-
cially of French vocables, seems probable. French vocables;
bodily garment of the Encyclopédie and Gospel according to Wol-
ney, Jean-Jacques and Company; of infinite import to Francial
Nay is it not, in some sort, beautiful to see the sacred flame of
ingenuous human curiosity, love of knowledge, awakened, amid the
damp somnolent vapours, real and metaphorical, the damp tropical
poisonjungles, and fat Lethean stupefactions and entanglements,
even in the heart of a poor Paraguay Creole 2 Sacred flame, no
bigger yet than that of a farthing rushlight, and with nothing but
secondhand French class-books in Science, and in Politics and
Morals nothing but the Raynals and Rousseaus, to feed it:—an
ill-fed, lank-quavering, most blue-coloured, almost ghastly-looking
flame; but a needful one, a kind of sacred one even that | Thou
shalt love knowledge, search what is the truth of this God's Uni-
verse; thou art privileged and bound to love it, to search for it, in
Jesuit Tucuman, in all places that the sky covers; and shalt try
even Volneys for help, if there be no other help ! This poor blue-
coloured inextinguishable flame in the soul of Rodriguez Francia,
there as it burns better or worse, in many figures, through the
whole life of him, is very notable to me. Blue flame though it be,
it has to burn-up considerable quantities of poisonous lumber from
the general face of Paraguay; and singe the profound impenetrable
forest jungle, spite of all its brambles and lianas, into a very black
condition,-intimating that there shall be decease and removal on
the part of said forest jungle; peremptory removal; that the blessed
Sunlight shall again look-in upon his cousin Earth, tyrannously
hidden from him for so many centuries now ! Courage, Rodri-
guez |
Rodriguez, indifferent to such remote considerations, success-
fully addicts himself to law-pleadings, and general private studies,
in the City of Assumpcion. We have always understood he was
one of the best Advocates, perhaps the very best, and what is still
268 MISCELLANIES.
more, the justest that ever took briefs in that country. This the
Robertsonian Reign of Terror itself is willing to admit, may repeat-
edly asserts, and impresses on us. He was so just and true, while
a young man; gave such divine prognostics of a life of nobleness;
and then, in his riper years, so belied all that Shameful to think
of: he bade fair, at one time, to be a friend-of-humanity of the first
water; and then gradually, hardened by political success and love
of power, he became a mere ravenous goul, or solitary thief in the
night; stealing the constitutional palladiums from their parlia-
ment-houses, and executed upwards of forty persons ! Sad to
consider what men and friends-of-humanity will turn to
For the rest, it is not given to this or as yet to any editor, till
a Biography arrive from Paraguay, to shape-out with the smallest
clearness, a representation of Francia's existence as an Assumpcion
Advocate; the scene is so distant, the conditions of it so unknown.
Assumpcion City, near three-hundred years old now, lies in free-
and-easy fashion on the left bank of the Parana River; embosomed
among fruit-forests, rich tropical umbrage; thick wood round it
everywhere, which serves for defence too against the Indians.
Approach by which of the various roads you will, it is through
miles of solitary shady avenue, shutting-out the sun's glare; over-
canopying, as with grateful green awning, the loose sand-highway,
—where, in the early part of this Century (date undiscoverable in
those intricate Volumes), Mr. Parish Robertson, advancing on
horseback, met one cart driven by a smart brown girl, in red bo-
dice, with long black hair, not unattractive to look upon; and for a
space of twelve miles, no other articulate-speaking thing whatever."
The people of that profuse climate live in a careless abundance,
troubling themselves about few things; build what wooden carts,
hide-beds, mud-brick houses are indispensable; import what of
ornamental lies handiest abroad; exchanging for it Paraguay tea
in sewed goatskins. Riding through the town of Santa Fé, with
Parish Robertson, at three in the afternoon, you will find the en-
tire population just risen from its siesta; slipshod, half-buttoned;
sitting in its front verandahs open to the street, eating pumpkins
with voracity,+sunk to the ears in pumpkins; imbibing the grate-
ful saccharine juices, in a free-and-easy way. They look up at the
sound of your hoofs, not without good humour. JFrondent trees
parasol the streets, thanks to Nature and the Virgin. You will
be welcome at their tertulias, a kind of “swarrie, as the Flunkey
says, “consisting of flirtation and the usual trimmings: swarrie on
the table about seven o'clock.” Before this, the whole population,
it is like, has gone to bathe promiscuously, and cool and purify
* Letters on Paraguay.
DR. FRANCIA. 269
itself in the Parana: promiscuously; but you have all got linen
bathing-garments, and can swash about with some decency; a great
relief to the human tabernacle in those climates. At your tertulia,
it is said, the Andalusian eyes, still bright to this tenth or twelfth
generation, are destructive, seductive enough, and argue a soul
that would repay cultivating. The beautiful half-savages; full of
wild sheet-lightning, which might be made continuously luminous!
Tertulia well over, you sleep on hide-stretchers, perhaps here and
there on a civilised mattress, within doors or on the housetops.
In the damp flat country parts, where the mosquitoes abound,
you sleep on high stages, mounted on four poles, forty feet above
the ground, attained by ladders; so high, blessed be the Virgin, no
mosquito can follow to sting, it is a blessing of the Virgin or
some other. You sleep there, in an indiscriminate arrangement,
each in his several poncho or blanket-cloak; with some saddle, deal-
box, wooden log, or the like, under your head. For bed-tester is
the canopy of everlasting blue; for night-lamp burns Canopus in
his infinite spaces; mosquitoes cannot reach you, if it please the
Powers. And rosy-fingered Morn, suffusing the east with sudden
red and gold, and other flame-heraldry of swift-advancing Day,
attenuates all dreams; and the Sun's first level light-volley sheers
away sleep from living creatures everywhere; and living men do
then awaken on their four-post stage there, in the Pampas, and
might begin with prayer if they liked, one fancies : There is an
altar decked on the horizon's edge yonder, is there not ; and a
cathedral wide enough 2–IHow, over-night, you have defended
yourself against vampires, is unknown to this Editor.
The Guacho population, it must be owned, is not yet fit for
constitutional liberty. They are a rude people; lead a drowsy
life, of ease and sluttish abundance,—one shade, and but one,
above a dog's life, which is defined as “ease and scarcity.’ The
arts are in their infancy; and not less the virtues. For equip-
ment, clothing, bedding, household furniture and general outfit of
every kind, those simple populations depend much on the skin of
the cow; making of it most things wanted, lasso, bolas, ship-cord-
age, rimmings of cart-wheels, spatterdashes, beds and house-doors.
In country places they sit on the skull of the cow: General Ar-
tigas was seen, and spoken with, by one of the Robertsons, sitting
among field-officers, all on cow-skulls, toasting stripes of beef, and
‘dictating to three secretaries at once.” They sit on the skull of
the cow in country places; nay they heat themselves, and even
burn lime, by igniting the carcass of the cow.
One art they seem to have perfected, and one only—that of
* Letters on Paraguay.
270 MISCELLANIES.
riding. Astley's and Ducrow's must hide their head, and all glories
of Newmarket and Epsom dwindle to extinction, in comparison of
Guacho horsemanship. Certainly if ever Centaurs lived upon the
earth, these are of them. They stick-on their horses as if both
were one flesh; galloping where there seems hardly path for an
ibex; leaping like kangaroos, and flourishing their nooses and
bolases the while. They can whirl themselves round under the
belly of the horse, in cases of war-stratagem, and stick fast, hang-
ing-on by the mere great toe and heel. You think it is a drove of
wild horses galloping up : on a sudden, with wild scream, it be-
comes a troop of Centaurs with pikes in their hands. Nay, they
have the skill, which most of all transcends Newmarket, of riding
on horses that are not fed; and can bring fresh speed and alacrity
out of a horse, which, with you, was on the point of lying down.
To ride on three horses with Ducrow they would esteem a small
feat: to ride on the broken-winded fractional part of one horse,
that is the feat Their huts, abound in beef, in reek also, and
rubbish; excelling in dirt most places that human nature has
anywhere inhabited. Poor Guachos! They drink Paraguay tea,
sucking it up in succession, through the same tin pipe, from one
common skillet. They are hospitable, sooty, leathery, lying, laugh-
ing fellows; of excellent talent in their sphere. They have stoi-
cism, though ignorant of Zeno; nay stoicism coupled with real
gaiety of heart. Amidst their reek and wreck, they laugh loud, in
rough jolly banter; they twang, in a plaintive manner, rough love-
melodies on a kind of guitar; smoke infinite tobacco; and delight
in gambling and ardent-spirits, ordinary refuge of voracious empty
souls. For the same reason, and a better, they delight also in
Corpus-Christi ceremonies, mass-chantings, and devotional per-
formances. These men are fit to be drilled into something ! Their
lives stand there like empty capacious bottles, calling to the hea-
vens and the earth, and all Dr. Francias who may pass that way:
“Is there nothing to put into us, then? Nothing but nomadic
idleness, Jesuit superstition, rubbish, reek, and dry stripes of
tough beef?” Ye unhappy Guachos, -yes, there is something
other, there are several things other, to put into you ! But withal,
you will observe, the seven devils have first to be put out of you:
Idleness, lawless Brutalness, Darkness, Falseness—seven devils
or more. And the way to put something into you is, alas, not so
plain at present 1 Is it, alas, on the whole, is it not perhaps to
lay good horsewhips lustily upon you, and cast out these seven
devils as a preliminary?
How Francia passed his days in such a region, where philo-
sophy, as is too clear, was at the lowest ebb 2 Francia, like Quin-
DR. FRANCIA. 271
tus Fixlein, had “perennial fire-proof joys, namely employments."
He had much Law-business, a great and ever-increasing reputation
as a man at once skilful and faithful in the management of causes
for men. Then, in his leisure hours, he had his Wolneys, Raynals;
he had secondhand scientific treatises in French; he loved to ‘in-
terrogate Nature, as they say; to possess theodolites, telescopes,
star-glasses, any kind of glass or book, or gazing implement
whatever, through which he might try to catch a glimpse of Fact
in this strange Universe: poor Francia! Nay, it is said, his hard
heart was not without inflammability; was sensible to those An-
dalusian eyes still bright in the tenth or twelfth generation. In
such case too, it may have burnt, one would think, like anthracite,
in a somewhat ardent manner. Rumours to this effect are afloat;
not at once incredible. Pity there had not been some Andalusian
pair of eyes, with speculation, depth and soul enough in the rear
of them to fetter Dr. Francia permanently, and make a house-
father of him. It had been better; but it befell not. As for that
lightheaded, Smart, brown girl whom, twenty years afterwards, you
saw selling flowers on the streets of Assumpcion, and leading a
light life, is there any certainty that she was Dr. Francia's daugh-
ter? Any certainty that, even if so, he could and should have
done something considerable for her?! Poor Francia, poor light-
headed, smart, brown girl, -this present Reviewer cannot say !
Francia is a somewhat lonesome, downlooking man, apt to be
solitary even in the press of men; wears a face not unvisited by
laughter, yet tending habitually towards the sorrowful, the stern.
He passes everywhere for a man of Veracity, punctuality, of iron
methodic rigour; of iron rectitude, above all. “The skilful lawyer,'
‘the learned lawyer,’ these are reputations; but the ‘honest
lawyer l’ This Law-case was reported by the Robertsons before
they thought of writing a Francia's Reign of Terror, with that run-
ning shriek, which so confuses us. We love to believe the anec-
dote, even in its present loose state, as significant of many things
in Francia:
‘It has been already observed that Francia's reputation, as a lawyer,
was not only unsullied by venality, but conspicuous for rectitude.
“He had a friend in Assumpcion of the name of Domingo Rodriguez.
This man had cast a covetous eye upon a Naboth’s vineyard, and this
Naboth, of whom Francia was the open enemy, was called Estanislao
Machain. Never doubting that the young Doctor, like other lawyers,
would undertake his unrighteous cause, Rodriguez opened to him his case,
and requested, with a handsome retainer, his advocacy of it. Francia saw
at once that his friend's pretensions were founded in fraud and injustice;
and he not only refused to act as his counsel, but plainly told him that
| Robertson.
272 MISCEI.LANIES,
much as he hated his antagonist Machain, yet if he (Rodriguez) persisted
in his iniquitous suit, that antagonist should have his (Francia's) most
zealous support. But covetousness, as Ahab's story shows us, is not so
easily driven from its pretensions; and in spite of Francia's warning, Rod-
riguez persisted. As he was a potent man in point of fortune, all was
going against Machain and his devoted vineyard.
“At this stage of the question, Francia wrapped himself one night in
his cloak, and walked to the house of his inveterate enemy, Machain. The
slave who opened the door, knowing that his master and the Doctor, like
the houses of Montagu and Capulet, were smoke in each other's eyes, re-
fused the lawyer admittance, and ran to inform his master of the strange
and unexpected visit. Machain, no less struck by the circumstance than
his slave, for some time hesitated; but at length determined to admit
Francia. In walked the silent Doctor to Machain's chamber. All the
papers connected with the law-plea—voluminous enough I have been as-
sured—were outspread upon the defendant's escritoire. -
* “Machain,” said the Lawyer, addressing him, “you know I am your
enemy. But I know that my friend Rodriguez meditates, and will cer-
tainly, unless I interfere, carry against you an act of gross and lawless ag-
gression; I have come to offer my services in your defence.”
“The astonished Machain could scarcely credit his senses; but poured
forth the ebullition of his gratitude in terms of thankful acquiescence.
“The first “escrito,” or writing, sent-in by Francia to the Juez de Al-
zada, or Judge of the Court of Appeal, confounded the adverse advocates,
and staggered the judge, who was in their interest. “My friend,” said the
judge to the leading counsel, “I cannot go forward in this matter, unless
you bribe Dr. Francia to be silent.” “I will try,” replied the advocate;
and he went to Naboth's counsel with a hundred doubloons (about three-
hundred-and-fifty guineas), which he offered him as a bribe to let the
cause take its iniquitous course. Considering too, that his best introduc-
tion would be a hint that this douceur was offered with the judge's con-
* the knavish lawyer hinted to the upright one that such was the
act.
* “Salga Usted,” said Francia, “con Sus viles pensamientos y vilisimo
oro de mi casa / Out, with your vile insinuations, and dross of gold, from
my house!”
“Off marched the venal drudge of the unjust judge; and in a moment
putting on his capote, the offended Advocate went to the residence of the
Juez de Alzada. Shortly relating what had passed between himself and
the myrmidon, “Sir,” continued Francia, “ you are a disgrace to law, and
a blot upon justice. You are, moreover, completely in my power; and
unless to-morrow I have a decision in favour of my client, I will make your
seat upon the bench too hot for you, and the insignia of your judicial office
shall become the emblems of your shame.”
“The morrow did bring a decision in favour of Francia's client. Naboth
retained his vineyard; the judge lost his reputation; and the young Doc-
tor's fame extended far and wide.”
On the other hand, it is admitted that he quarrelled with his
Father, in those days; and, as is reported, never spoke to him
more. The subject of the quarrel is vaguely supposed to have
been “money matters.’ Francia is not accused of avarice ; nay is
expressly acquitted of loving money, even by Rengger. But he
DR. FRANCIA. 273
did hate injustice;—and probably was not indisposed to allow him-
self, among others, “the height of fair play !’ A rigorous, correct
man, that will have a spade be a spade; a man of much learning
in Creole Law, and occult French Sciences, of great talent, energy,
fidelity:-a man of some temper withal; unhappily subject to
private ‘hypochondria;' black private thunder-clouds, whence
probably the origin of these lightnings, when you poke into him
He leads a lonesome self-secluded life; ‘interrogating Nature'
through mere star-glasses, and Abbé-Raynal philosophies,—who
in that way will yield no very exuberant response. Mere law-
papers, advocate-fees, civic officialities, renowns, and the wonder
of Assumpcion Guachos;–not so much as a pair of Andalusian
eyes that can lasso him, except in a temporary way: this man
seems to have got but a lean lease of Nature, and may end in a
rather shrunk condition . A century ago, with this atrabiliar ear-
nestness of his, and such a reverberatory furnace of passions,
inquiries, unspeakabilities burning in him, deep under cover, he
might have made an excellent Monk of St. Dominic, fit almost for
canonisation; nay, an excellent Superior of the Jesuits, Grand
Inquisitor, or the like, had you developed him in that way. But,
for all this, he is now a day too late. Monks of St. Dominic that
might have been, do now, instead of devotional raptures and mi-
raculous suspensions in prayer, produce—brown accidental female
infants, to sell flowers, in an indigent state, on the streets of AS-
sumpcion It is grown really a most barren time ; and this
Francia with his grim unspeakabilities, with his fiery splenetic
humours, kept close under lock-and-key, what has he to look for
in it? A post on the Bench, in the municipal Cabildo,-may he
has already a post in the Cabildo; he has already been Alcalde,
Lord-Mayor of Assumpcion, and ridden in such gilt-coach as they
had. He can look for little, one would say, but barren moneys,
barren Guacho world-celebrities; Abbé-Raynal philosophisms also
very barren ; wholly a barren life-voyage of it, ending—in zero,
thinks the Abbé Raynal 2
But no; the world wags not that way in those days. Far Over
the waters there have been Federations of the Champ-de-Mars:
guillotines, portable-guillotines, and a French People risen against
Tyrants; there has been a Sansculottism, speaking at last in can-
non-volleys and the crash of towns and nations over half the world.
Sleek Fatpauncho Usandwonto, sleek aristocratic Donothingism,
sunk as in death-sleep in its well-stuffed easy-chair, or staggering
in somnambulism on the housetops, seemed to itself to hear a
voice say, Sleep no more, Donothingism ; Donothingism doth
murder sleep ! It was indeed a terrible explosion, that of Sans-
TVOL. IV. T
274 MISCELLANIES.
culottism; commingling very Tartarus with the old-established
stars;–fit, such a tumult was it, to awaken all but the dead. And
out of it there had come Napoleonisms, Tamerlanisms; and then
as a branch of these, ‘Conventions of Aranjuez, soon followed by
‘Spanish Juntas,' ‘Spanish Cortes;' and, on the whole, a Smiting
broad awake of poor old Spain itself, much to its amazement. And
naturally of New Spain next, to its double amazement, seeing
itself awake! And so, in the new Hemisphere too, arise wild pro-
jects, angry arguings; arise armed gatherings in Santa Marguerita
Island, with Bolivars and invasions of Cumana; revolts of La
Plata, revolts of this and then of that ; the subterranean electric
element, shock on shock, shaking and exploding, in the new Hemi-
sphere too, from sea to sea. Very astonishing to witness, from
the year 1810 and onwards. Had Rodriguez Francia three ears,
he would hear; as many eyes as Argus, he would gaze He is
all eye, he is all ear. A new, entirely different figure of existence
is cut-out for Doctor Rodriguez.
The Paraguay People as a body, lying far inland, with little
speculation in their heads, were in no haste to adopt the new re-
publican gospel; but looked first how it would succeed in shaping
itself into facts. Buenos-Ayres, Tucuman, most of the La Plata
Provinces had made their revolutions, brought in the reign of
liberty, and unluckily driven out the reign of law and regularity;
before the Paraguenos could resolve on such an enterprise. Per-
haps they are afraid 2 General Belgrano, with a force of a thousand
men, missioned by Buenos-Ayres, came up the river to countenance
them, in the end of 1810; but was met on their frontier in array
of war; was attacked, or at least was terrified, in the night-watches,
so that his men all fled;—and on the morrow, poor General Bel-
grano found himself not a countenancer, but one needing counte-
nance; and was in a polite way sent down the river again || Not
till a year after did the Paraguenos, by spontaneous movement,
resolve on a career of freedom;-resolve on getting some kind of
Congress assembled, and the old Government sent its ways. Fran-
cia, it is presumable, was active at once in exciting and restraining
them : the fruit was now drop-ripe, we may say, and fell by a shake.
Our old royal Governor went aside, worthy man, with some slight
grimace, when ordered to do so; National Congress introduced
itself; secretaries read papers, “ compiled chiefly out of Rollin's
Ancient History;' and we became a Republic: with Don Fulgencio
Yegros, one of the richest Guachos and best horseman of the pro-
vince, for President, and two Assessors with him, called also Vocales,
| Rengger. -
T)R. FRANCIA. 275
or Vowels, whose names escape us ; Francia, as Secretary, being
naturally the Consonant, or motive soul of the combination. This,
as we grope out the date, was in 1811. The Paraguay Congress,
having completed this constitution, went home again to its field-
labours, hoping a good issue.
Feebler light hardly ever dawned for the historical mind, than
this which is shed for us by Rengger, Robertsons and Company,
on the birth, the cradling, baptismal processes and early fortunes
of the new Paraguay Republic. Through long vague, and indeed
intrinsically vacant pages of their Books, it lies gray, undecipher-
able, without form and void. Francia was Secretary, and a Re-
public did take place : this, as one small clear-burning fact, shed-
ding far a comfortable visibility, conceivability, over the universal
darkness, and making it into conceivable dusk with one rushlight
fact in the centre of it, this we do know ; and, cheerfully yielding
to necessity, decide that this shall suffice us to know. What more
is there? Absurd somnolent persons, struck broad awake by the
subterranean concussion of Civil and Religious Liberty all over
the World, meeting together to establish a republican career of
freedom, and compile official papers out of Rollin, are not a sub-
ject on which the historical mind can be enlightened. The his-
torical mind, thank Heaven, forgets such persons and their papers,
as fast as you repeat them. Besides, these Guacho populations
are greedy, superstitious, vain ; and, as Miers said in his haste,
mendacious every soul of them Within the confines of Paraguay,
we know for certain but of one man who would do himself an in-
jury to do a just or true thing under the sum : one man who under-
stands in his heart that this Universe is an etermal Fact,-and not
some huge temporary Pumpkin, saccharine, absinthian; the rest
of its significance chimerical merely . Such men cannot have a
history, though a Thucydides came to write it.—Enough for us to
understand that Don This was a vapouring blockhead, who fol-
lowed his pleasures, his peculations, and Don That another of the
same ; that there occurred fatuities, mismanagements innumer-
able ; then discontents, open grumblings, and, as a running ac-
companiment, intriguings, caballings, outings, innings: till the
Government House, fouler than when the Jesuits had it, became
a bottomless pestilent inanity, insupportable to any articulate-
speaking Soul; till Secretary Francia should feel that he, for one,
could not be Consonant to such a set of Vowels; till Secretary
Francia, one day, flinging down his papers, rising to his feet,
should jerk-out with oratorical vivacity his lean right-hand, and
say, with knit brows, in a low swift tone: “Adieu, Senhores; God
preserve you many years 1 "-
276 MISCELLANIES.
Francia withdrew to his chacra, a pleasant country-house in the
woods of Ytapúa not far off; there to interrogate Nature, and live
in a private manner. Parish Robertson, much about this date,
which we grope and guess to have been perhaps in 1812, was
boarded with a certain ancient Donna Juana, in that same region;
had tertulias of unimaginable brilliancy; and often went shooting
of an evening. On one of those—But he shall himself report:
‘ On one of those lovely evenings in Paraguay, after the south-west
wind has both cleared and cooled the air, I was drawn, in my pursuit of
game, into a peaceful valley, not far from Donna Juana's, and remarkable
for its combination of all the striking features of the scenery of the country.
Suddenly I came upon a neat and unpretending cottage. Up rose a par-
tridge; I fired, and the bird came to the ground. A voice from behind
called out, ‘Buen tiro’—“a good shot.’ I turned round, and beheld a gen-
tleman of about fifty years of age, dressed in a suit of black, with a large
Scarlet capote, or cloak, thrown over his shoulders. He had a maté-cup in
one hand, a cigar in the other; and a little urchin of a negro, with his
arms crossed, was in attendance by the gentleman's side. The stranger's
countenance was dark, and his black eyes were very penetrating, while his
jet hair, combed back from a bold forehead, and hanging in natural ring-
lets over his shoulders, gave him a dignified and striking air. He wore on
his shoes large golden buckles, and at the knees of his breeches the same.
“In exercise of the primitive and simple hospitality common in the
country, I was invited to sit down under the corridor, and to take a cigar
and maté (cup of Paraguay tea). A celestial globe, a large telescope and
a theodolite were under the little portico; and I immediately inferred that
the personage before me was no other than Dr. Francia.”
Yes, here for the first time in authentic history, a remarkable
hearsay becomes a remarkable visuality: through a pair of clear
human eyes, you look face to face on the very figure of the man.
Is not this verily the exact record of those clear Robertsonian
eyes, and seven senses; entered accurately, then and not after.
wards, on the ledger of the memory? We will hope so ; who can
but hope so ! The figure of the man will, at all events, be exact.
Here too is the figure of his library;-the conversation, if any,
was of the last degree of insignificance, and may be left out, or
supplied ad libitum :
‘He introduced me to his library, in a confined room, with a very small
window, and that so shaded by the roof of the corridor, as to admit the
least portion of light necessary for study. The library was arranged on
three rows of shelves, extending across the room, and might have consisted
of three-hundred volumes. There were many ponderous books on law; a
few on the inductive sciences; some in French and some in Latin upon
subjects of general literature, with Euclid's Elements, and some schoolboy
treatises on algebra. On a large table were heaps of law-papers and pro-
cesses. Several folios bound in vellum were outspread upon it; a lighted
candle (though placed there solely with a view to light cigars) lent its
feeble aid to illumine the room; while a maté-cup and inkstand, both of
I).R. FRANCIA. 277
silver, stood on another part of the table. There was neither carpet nor
mat on the brick floor; and the chairs were of such ancient fashion, size
and weight, that it required a considerable effort to move them from one
spot to another.’
Peculation, malversation, the various forms of imbecility and
voracious dishonesty went their due course in the Government-
offices of Assumpcion, unrestrained by Francia, and unrestrain-
able:–till, as we may say, it reached a height; and, like other
suppurations and diseased concretions in the living system, had
to burst, and take itself away. To the eyes of Paraguay in gene-
ral, it had become clear that such a reign of liberty was unendur-
able ; that some new revolution, or change of ministry was indis-
pensable.
Rengger says that Francia withdrew “more than once' to his
chaera, disgusted with his Colleagues; who always, by unlimited
promises and protestations, had to flatter him back again; and
then anew disgusted him. Francia is the Consonant of these ab-
surd ‘Wowels; no business can go on without Francial And the
finances are deranged, insolvent; and the military, unpaid, inef.
fective, cannot so much as keep out the Indians; and there comes
trouble, and rumour of new war, from Buenos-Ayres;–alas, from
what corner of the great Continent, come there other than troubles
and rumours of war? Patriot generals become traitor generals;
get themselves ‘shot in market-places;’ revolution follows revolu-
tion. Artigas, close on our borders, has begun harrying the Banda
Oriental with fire and sword; ‘dictating despatches from cow-
skulls.’ Tike clouds of wolves, only feller, being mounted on
horseback, with pikes, the Indians dart-in on us; carrying con-
flagration and dismay. Paraguay must get itself governed, or it
will be worse for Paraguay ! The eyes of all Paraguay, we can
well fancy, turn to the one man of talent they have, the one man
of veracity they have.
In 1813 a second Congress is got together: we fancy it was
Francia's last advice to the Government suppuration, when it flat-
tered him back, for the last time, to ask his advice, That such sup-
puration do now dissolve itself, and a new Congress be summoned
In the new Congress, the Vocales are voted out; Francia and Ful-
gencio are named joint Consuls: with Francia for Consul, and Don
Fulgencio Yegros for Consul's cloak, it may be better. Don Ful-
gencio rides about in gorgeous sash and epaulettes, a rich man
and horse-subduer; good as Consul's cloak;-but why should the
real Consul have a cloak 3 Next year in the third Congress, Fran-
cia, ‘by insidious manoeuvring,' by “favour of the military,’ and,
indeed, also in some sort, we may say, by law of Nature, gets
278 MISCELLANIES.
himself declared Dictator: ‘for three years, or for life, may in theso
circumstances mean much the same. This was in 1814. Francia
never assembled any Congress more; having stolen the constitu-
tional palladiums, and insidiously got his wicked will ! Of a Con-
gress that compiled constitutions out of Rollin, who would not
lament such destiny? This Congress should have met again
It was indeed, say Rengger and the Robertsons themselves, such
a Congress as never met before in the world; a Congress which
knew not its right hand from its left; which drank infinite rum
in the taverns; and had one wish, that of getting on horseback
again, home to its field-husbandry and partridge-shooting again.
The military mostly favoured Francia; being gained-over by him,
—the thief of constitutional palladiums.
With Francia's entrance on the Government as Consul, still
more as Dictator, a great improvement, it is granted even by
Rengger, did in all quarters forthwith show itself. The finances
were husbanded, were accurately gathered; every official person
in Paraguay had to bethink him, and begin doing his work, in-
stead of merely seeming to do it. The soldiers Francia took care
to see paid and drilled; to see march, with real death-shot and
service, when the Indians or other enemies showed themselves.
Guardias, Guardhouses, at short distances were established along
the River's bank and all round the dangerous Frontiers: wherever
the Indian centaur-troop showed face, an alarm-cannon went off,
and soldiers, quickly assembling, with actual death-shot and ser-
vice, were upon them. These wolf-hordes had to vanish into the
heart of their deserts again. The land had peace. Neither Arti-
gas, nor any of the firebrands and war-plagues which were dis-
tracting South America from side to side, could get across the
border. All negotiation or intercommuning with Buenos-Ayres,
or with any of these war-distracted countries, was peremptorily
waived. To no “Congress of Lima,’ ‘General Congress of Panama,’
or other general or particular Congress, would Francia, by deputy
or message, offer the smallest recognition. All South America
raging and ravening like one huge dog-kennel gone rabid, we here
in Paraguay have peace, and cultivate our tea-trees: why should
not we let well alone 2 By degrees, one thing acting on another,
and this ring of Frontier ‘Guardhouses’ being already erected
there, a rigorous sanitary line, impregnable as brass, was drawn
round all Paraguay; no communication, import or export trade
allowed, except by the Dictator's license, given on payment of
the due moneys, when the political horizon seemed innocuous;
refused when otherwise. The Dictator's trade-licenses were a
IDR. FRANCIA. 279
considerable branch of his revenues; his entrance-dues, somewhat
onerous to the foreign merchant (think the Messrs. Robertson),
were another. Paraguay stood isolated ; the rabid dog-kennel
raging round it, wide as South America, but kept out as by lock-
and-key.
These were vigorous measures, gradually coming on the som-
nolent Guacho population It seems, meanwhile, that, even after
the Perpetual Dictatorship, and onwards to the fifth or the sixth
year of Francia's government, there was, though the constitutional
palladiums were stolen, nothing very special to complain of Para-
guay had peace; sat under its tea-tree; the rabid dog-kennel, In-
dians, Artiguenos and other war firebrands, all shut-out from it.
But in that year 1819, the second year of the Perpetual Dictator-
ship, there arose, not for the first time, dim indications of ‘Plots,'
even dangerous Plots' In that year the firebrand Artigas was
finally quenched; obliged to beg a lodging even of Francia, his
enemy;-and got it, hospitably, though contemptuously. And
now straightway there advanced, from Artigas's lost wasted coun-
try, a certain General Ramirez, his rival and conqueror, and fellow-
bandit and firebrand. This General Ramirez advanced up to our
very frontier; first with offers of alliance; failing that, with offers
of war; on which latter offer he was closed with, was cut to pieces;
and—a Letter was found about him, addressed to Don Fulgencio
Yegros, the rich Guacho horseman and Ex-Consul; which arrested
all the faculties of Dr. Francia's most intense intelligence, there
and then A Conspiracy, with Don Fulgencio at the head of it:
Conspiracy which seems the wider-spread the farther one investi-
gates it; which has been brewing itself these “two years,' and now
‘ on Good-Friday next is to be burst out; starting with the mas-
sacre of Dr. Francia and others, whatever it may close with !!
Francia was not a man to be trifled with in plots | He looked,
watched, investigated, till he got the exact extent, position, nature
and structure of this Plot fully in his eye; and then—why, then
he pounced on it like a glede-falcon, like a fierce condor, suddenly
from the invisible blue; struck beak and claws into the very heart
of it, tore it into small fragments, and consumed it on the spot.
It is Francia's way! This was the last plot, though not the first
plot, Francia ever heard of during his Perpetual Dictatorship.
It is, as we find, over these three or these two years, while the
Fulgencio Plot is getting itself pounced upon and torn in pieces,
that the “reign of terror,” properly so called, extends. Over these
three or these two years only,–though the ‘running shriek' of it
confuses all things to the end of the chapter. It was in this stern
* Rengger.
280 MISCELLANIES.
period that Francia executed above forty persons. Not entirely
inexplicable ! “Par Dios, ye shall not conspire against me; I will
not allow it! The Career of Freedom, be it known to all men and
Guachos, is not yet begun in this country; I am still only casting
out the Seven Devils. My lease of Paraguay, a harder one than
your stupidities suppose, is for life: the contract is, Thou must
die if thy lease be taken from thee. Aim not at my life, ye con-
stitutional Guachos, -or let it be a diviner man than Don Fulgen-
cio the Horse-subduer that does it. By Heaven, if you aim at my
life, I will bid you have a care of your own " He executed up-
wards of forty persons. How many he arrested, flogged, cross-
questioned—for he is an inexorable man | If you are guilty, or
suspected of guilt, it will go ill with you here. Francia's arrest,
carried by a grenadier, arrives; you are in strait prison; you are
in Francia's bodily presence; those sharp St.-Domimic eyes, that
diabolic intellect, prying into you, probing, cross-questioning you,
till the secret cannot be hid: till the “three ball-cartridges' are
handed to a Sentry;—and your doom is Rhadamanthine !
But the Plots, as we say, having ceased by this rough surgery,
it would appear that there was, for the next twenty years, little or
no more of it, little or no use for more. The ‘reign of terror, one
begins to find, was properly a reign of rigour; which would become
“terrible' enough if you infringed the rules of it, but which was
peaceable otherwise, regular otherwise. Let this, amid the ‘run-
ning shriek,' which will and should run its full length in such
circumstances, be well kept in mind.
It happened too, as Rengger tells us, in the same year (1820,
as we grope and gather), that a visitation of locusts, as sometimes
occurs, destroyed all the crops of Paraguay; and there was no
prospect but of universal dearth or famine. The crops are done;
eaten by locusts; the summer at an end We have no foreign
trade, or next to none, and never had almost any; what will be-
come of Paraguay and its Guachos? In Guachos is no hope, no
help : but in a Dionysius of the Guachos? Dictator Francia, led
by occult French Sciences and natural sagacity, may driven by
necessity itself, peremptorily commands the farmers, throughout
all Paraguay, To sow a certain portion of their lands anew ; with
or without hope, under penalties | The result was a moderately
good harvest still: the result was a discovery that Two harvests
were, every year, possible in Paraguay; that Agriculture, a rigor-
ous Dictator presiding over it, could be infinitely improved there.]
As Paraguay has about 100,000 square miles of territory mostly
fertile, and only some two souls planted on each square mile
* Rengger, pp. 67, &c.
IDR. FRANCIA. - 281
thereof, it seemed to the Dictator that this, and not Foreign
Trade, might be a good course for his Paraguenos. This accord-
ingly, and not foreign trade, in the present state of the political
horizon, was the course resolved on; the course persisted in, “with
evident advantages,’ says Rengger. Thus, one thing acting on
another, domestic Plot, hanging on Artigas's country from with-
out; and Locust swarms with Improvement of Husbandry in the
interior; and those Guardhouses all already there, along the fron-
tier, Paraguay came more and more to be hermetically closed;
and Francia reigned over it, for the rest of his life, as a rigorous
Dionysius of Paraguay, without foreign intercourse, or with such
only as seemed good to Francia.
How the Dictator, now secure in possession, did manage this
huge Paraguay, which, by strange ‘insidious’ and other means, had
fallen in life-lease to him, and was his to do the best he could
with, it were interesting to know. What the meaning of him, the
result of him, actually was 2 One desiderates some Biography of
Francia by a native —Meanwhile, in the AEsthetische Briefwechsel
of Herr Professor Sauerteig, a Work not yet known in England,
nor treating specially of this subject, we find, scattered at distant
intervals, a remark or two which may be worth translating. Pro-
fessor Sauerteig, an open soul, looking with clear eye and large
recognising heart over all accessible quarters of the world, has cast
a sharp sunglance here and there into Dr. Francia too. These few
philosophical Remarks of his, and them a few Anecdotes gleaned
elsewhere, such as the barren ground yields, must comprise what
more we have to say of Francia.
‘Pity, exclaims Sauerteig once, ‘that a nation cannot reform itself, as
the English are now trying to do, by what their newspapers call “tre-
mendous cheers!” Alas, it cannot be done. Reform is not joyous but
grievous; no single man can reform himself without stern suffering and
stern working; how much less can a nation of men. The serpent sheds
not his old skin without rusty disconsolateness; he is not happy but miser-
able! In the Water-cure itself, do you not sit steeped for months; washed
to the heart in elemental drenchings; and, like Job, are made to curse
your day? Reforming of a nation is a terrible business! Thus too, Medea,
when she made men young again, was wont (du Himmel/) to hew them in
pieces with meat-axes; cast them into caldrons, and boil them for a length
of time. How much handier could they but have done it by “tremendous
cheers” alone!’— —
“Like a drop of surgical antiseptic liquid, poured (by the benign Powers,
as I fancy!) into boundless brutal corruptions; very sharp, very caustic,
corrosive enough, this tawny tyrannous Dr. Francia, in the interior of the
South-American continent, he too is one of the elements of the grand
Phenomenon there. A monstrous moulting-process taking place;—mon-
282 MISCELTANIES.
strous gluttonous boa-constrictor (he is of length from Panama to Pata-
gonia) shedding his old skin; whole continent getting itself chopped to
pieces, and boiled in the Medea caldron, to become young again,_unable
to manage it by “tremendous cheers” alone !”— —
“What they say about “love of power” amounts to little. Power? Love
of “power” merely to make flunkeys come and go for you is a “love,” I
should think, which enters only into the minds of persons in a very infan-
tine state | A grown man, like this Dr. Francia, who wants nothing, as I
am assured, but three cigars daily, a cup of maté, and four ounces of
butchers' meat with brown bread: the whole world and its united flunkeys,
taking constant thought of the matter, can do nothing for him but that
only. That he already has, and has had always; why should he, not being
a minor, love flunkey “power?” He loves to see you about him, with your
flunkey promptitudes, with your grimaces, adulations and sham-loyalty 2
You are so beautiful, a daily and hourly feast to the eye and soul? Ye un-
fortunates, from his heart rises one prayer, That the last created flunkey
had vanished from this universe, never to appear more
“And yet truly a man does tend, and must under frightful penalties
perpetually tend, to be king of his world; to stand in his world as what he
is, a centre of light and order, not of darkness and confusion. A man loves
power: yes, if he see disorder his eternal enemy rampant about him, he
does love to see said enemy in the way of being conquered; he can have
no rest till that come to pass! Your Mahomet cannot bear a rent cloak,
but clouts it with his own hands; how much more a rent country, a rent
world? He has to imprint the image of his own veracity upon the world,
and shall, and must, and will do it, more or less: it is at his peril if he
neglect any great or any small possibility he may have of this. Francia's
inner flame is but a meagre, blue-burning one : let him irradiate midnight
Paraguay with it, such as it is.”— —
‘Nay, on the whole, how cunning is Nature in getting her farms leased'
Is it not a blessing this Paraguay can get the one veracious man it has, to
take lease of it, in these sad circumstances? His farm-profits, and whole
wages, it would seem, amount only to what is called “Nothing, and find
yourself!” Spartan food and lodging, solitude, two cigars, and a cup of
maté daily, he already had.'
Truly, it would seem, as Sauerteig remarks, Dictator Francia
had not a very joyous existence of it, in this his life-lease of Para-
guay! Casting-out of the Seven Devils from a Guacho population
is not joyous at all; both exorcist and exorcised find it sorrowful!
Meanwhile, it does appear, there was some improvement made :
no veritable labour, not even a Dr. Francia's, is in vain.
Of Francia's improvements there might as much be said as of
his cruelties or rigours; for indeed, at bottom, the one was in
proportion to the other. He improved agriculture:–not two ears
of corn where one only grew, but two harvests of corn, as we have
seen He introduced schools, ‘boarding-schools,’ ‘elementary
schools,' and others, on which Rengger has a chapter; everywhere
he promoted education, as he could; repressed superstition as he
DR. FRANCIA. 283
could. Strict justice between man and man was enforced in his
Law-courts: he himself would accept no gift, not even a trifle, in
any case whatever. Rengger, on packing-up for departure, had left
in his hands, not from forgetfulness, a Print of Napoleon; worth
Some shillings in Europe, but invaluable in Paraguay, where Fran-
cia, who admired this Hero much, had hitherto seen no likeness
of him but a Nürnberg caricature. Francia sent an express after
Rengger, to ask what the value of the Print was. No value; M.
Rengger could not sell Prints; it was much at his Excellency's
service. His Excellency straightway returned it. An exact, deci-
sive man | Peculation, idleness, ineffectuality, had to cease in all
the Public Offices of Paraguay. So far as lay in Francia, no public
and no private man in Paraguay was allowed to slur his work; all
public and all private men, so far as lay in Francia, were forced to
do their work or die! We might define him as the born enemy of
quacks; one who has from Nature a heart-hatred of unveracity in
man or in thing, wheresoever he sees it. Of persons who do not
speak the truth, and do not act the truth, he has a kind of diabolic-
divine impatience; they had better disappear out of his neigh-
bourhood. Poor Francia : his light was but a very sulphurous,
meagre, blue-burning one; but he irradiated Paraguay with it (as
our Professor says) the best he could.
That he had to maintain himself alive all the while, and would
suffer no man to glance contradiction at him, but instantaneously
repressed all such : this too we need no ghost to tell us; this lay in
the very nature of the case. His lease of Paraguay was a life-lease.
He had his “three ball-cartridges' ready for whatever man he found
aiming at his life. He had frightful prisons. He had Tevego far
up among the wastes, a kind of Paraguay Siberia, to which unruly
persons, not yet got the length of shooting, were relegated. The
main exiles, Rengger says, were drunken mulattoes and the class
called unfortunate-females. They lived miserably there; became
a sadder, and perhaps a wiser, body of mulattoes and unfortunate-
females.
But let us listen for a moment to the Reverend Manuel Perez
as he preaches, ‘in the Church of the Incarnation at Assumpcion,
on the 20th of October 1840, in a tone somewhat nasal, yet trust-
worthy withal. His ‘Funeral Discourse,' translated into a kind
of English, presents itself still audible in the Argentine News of
Buenos-Ayres, No. 813. We select some passages; studying to
abate the nasal tone a little; to reduce, if possible, the Argentine
English under the law of grammar. It is the worst translation in
the world, and does poor Manuel Perez one knows not what injus-
tice. This Funeral Discourse has “much surprised' the Able Edi-
284 MISCELLANIES.
tor, it seems;–has led him perhaps to ask, or be readier for asking,
Whether all that confused loud litanying about “reign of terror,'
and so forth, was not possibly of a rather long-eared nature ?
‘Amid the convulsions of revolution,’ says the Reverend Manuel, “the
Lord, looking down with pity on Paraguay, raised up Don José Gaspar
Francia for its deliverance. And when, in the words of my Text, the chil-
dren of Israel cried unto the Lord, the Lord raised up a deliverer to the
children of Israel, who delivered them.’
‘What measures did not his Excellency devise, what labours undergo,
to preserve peace in the Republic at home, and place it in an attitude to
command respect from abroad His first care was directed to obtain sup-
plies of Arms, and to discipline Soldiers. To all that would import arms
he held out the inducement of exemption from duty, and the permission to
export in return whatever produce they preferred. An abundant supply of
excellent arms was, by these means, obtained. I am lost in wonder to think
how this great man could attend to such a multiplicity of things | He ap-
plied himself to the study of the military art; and, in a short time, taught
the exercise, and directed military evolutions like the skilfullest veteran.
Often have I seen his Excellency go up to a recruit, and show him by ex-
ample how to take aim at the target. Could any Paragueno think it other
than honourable to carry a musket, when his Dictator taught him how to
manage it? The cavalry-exercise too, though it seems to require a man at
once robust and experienced in horsemanship, his Excellency, as you know,
did himself superintend; at the head of his squadrons he charged and
manoeuvred, as if bred to it; and directed them with an energy and vigour
which infused his own martial spirit into these troops.’ -
“What evils do not the people suffer from Highwaymen 'exclaims his
Reverence, a little farther on; ‘violence, plunder, murder, are crimes fa-
miliar to these malefactors. The inaccessible mountains and wide deserts
in this Republic seemed to offer impunity to such men. Our Dictator suc-
ceeded in striking such a terror into them that they entirely disappeared,
seeking safety in a change of life. His Excellency saw that the manner of
inflicting the punishment was more efficacious than even the punishment
itself; and on this principle he acted. Whenever a robber could be seized,
he was led to the nearest Guardhouse (Guardia); a summary trial took
place; and straightway, so soon as he had made confession, he was shot.
These means proved effectual. Ere long the Republic was in such security,
that, we may say, a child might have travelled from the Uruguay to the
Parama without other protection than the dread which the Supreme Dic-
tator had inspired.”—This is saying something, your Reverence!
“But what is all this compared to the demon of Anarchy.” Oh!’ ex-
claims his simple Reverence, ‘Oh, my friends, would I had the talent to
paint to you the miseries of a people that fall into anarchy! And was not
our Republic on the very eve of this? Yes, brethren.’—‘It behoved his
Excellency to be prompt; to smother the enemy in his cradle ! He did so.
He seized the leaders; brought to summary trial, they were convicted of
high treason against the country. What a struggle now, for his Excellency,
between the law of duty, and the voice of feeling"—if feeling to any extent
there were ! ‘I,’ exclaims his Reverence, ‘am confident that had the doom
of imprisonment on those persons seemed sufficient for the State's peace,
his Excellency never would have ordered their execution.' It was unavoid-
able; nor was it avoided ; it was done ! ‘Brethren, should not I hesitate,
lest it be a profanation of the sacred place I now occupy, if I seem to ap-
DR. FRANCIA. 285
prove sanguinary measures in opposition to the mildness of the Gospel?
Brethren, no. God himself approved the conduct of Solomon in putting
Joab and Adonijah to death.’ Life is sacred, thinks his Reverence; but
there is something more sacred still: woe to him who does not know that
withal:
Alas, your Reverence, Paraguay has not yet succeeded in abo-
lishing capital punishment, then 2 But indeed neither has Nature,
anywhere that I hear of, yet succeeded in abolishing it. Act with
the due degree of perversity, you are sure enough of being vio-
lently put to death, in hospital or highway,+by dyspepsia, delirium
tremens, or stuck through by the kindled rage of your fellow-men
What can the friend of humanity do?—Twaddle in Exeter-hall or
elsewhere, ‘till he become a bore to us,’ and perhaps worse ! An
Advocate in Arras once gave-up a good judicial appointment, and
retired into frugality and privacy, rather than doom one culprit to
die by law. The name of this Advocate, let us mark it well, was
Maximilien Robespierre. There are sweet kinds of twaddle that
have a deadly virulence of poison concealed in them ; like the
sweetness of sugar-of-lead. Were it not better to make just laws,
think you, and then execute them strictly,–as the gods still do?
* His Excellency next directed his attention to purging the State from
another class of enemies, says Perez in the Incarnation Church ; ‘the
peculating Tax-gatherers, namely. Vigilantly detecting their frauds, he
made them refund for what was past, and took precautions against the like
in future; all their accounts were to be handed-in, for his examination,
once every year.’
‘The habit of his Excellency when he delivered-out articles for the sup-
ply of the public; that prolix and minute counting of things apparently un-
worthy of his attention,-had its origin in the same motive. I believe that
he did so, less from a want of confidence in the individuals lately appointed
for this purpose, than from a desire to show them with what delicacy they
should proceed. Hence likewise his ways, in scrupulously examining every
piece of artisans' workmanship.’
* Republic of Paraguay, how art thou indebted to the toils, the vigils
and cares of our Perpetual Dictator . It seemed as if this extraordinary
man were endowed with ubiquity, to attend to all thy wants and exigences.
Whilst in his closet, he was traversing thy frontiers to place thee in an at-
titude of security. What devastation did not those inroads of Indians from
the Chaco occasion to the inhabitants of Rio-Abajo Ever and anon there
reached Assumpcion, tidings of the terror and affliction caused by their
incursions. Which of us hoped that evils so wide-spread, ravages so appal-
ling, could be counteracted? Our Dictator, nevertheless, did devise effec-
tual ways of Securing that part of the Republic.
‘Four respectable Fortresses with competent garrisons have been the
impregnable barrier which has restrained the irruptions of those ferocious
Savages. Inhabitants of Rio-Abajo rest tranquil in your homes; you are
a portion of the People whom the Lord confided to the care of our Dicta-
tor; you are safe.'
“The precautions and wise measures he adopted to repel force, and
286 MIISCELLANIES.
drive-back the Savages to the north of the Republic; the Fortresses of
Climpo, of Sam Carlos de Apa, placed on the best footing for defence; the
orders and instructions furnished to the Willa de la Concepcion,-secured
that quarter of the Republic against attack from any.
“The great Wall, ditch and fortress, on the opposite bank of the River
Parana; the force and judicious arrangement of the troops distributed over
the interior in the south of our Republic, have commanded the respect of
its enemies in that quarter.'
“The beauty, the symmetry and good taste displayed in the building of
cities convey an advantageous idea of their inhabitants, continues Perez:
“Thus thought Caractacus, King of the Angles,'—thus think most persons !
“His Excellency, glancing at the condition of the Capital of the Republic,
saw a city in disorder and without police; streets without regularity, houses
built according to the caprice of their owners.'
But enough, O Perez; for it becomes too nasall Perez, with
a confident face, asks in fine, Whether all these things do not
clearly prove to men and Guachos of sense, that Dictator Francia
was ‘the deliverer whom the Lord raised up to deliver Para-
guay from its enemies?'—Truly, O Perez, the benefits of him
seem to have been considerable. Undoubtedly a man “sent by
Heaven,'—as all of us are Nay, it may be, the benefit of him is
not even yet exhausted, even yet entirely become visible. Who
knows but, in unborn centuries, Paragueno men will look back to
their lean iron Francia, as men do in such cases to the one veraci-
ous person, and institute considerations ! Oliver Cromwell, dead
two-hundred years, does yet speak; nay, perhaps now first begins
to speak. The meaning and meanings of the one true man, never
so lean and limited, starting-up direct from Nature's heart, in
this bewildered Guacho world, gone far away from Nature, are
endless
The Messrs. Robertson are very merry on this attempt of
Francia's to rebuild on a better plan the City of Assumpcion. The
City of Assumpcion, full of tropical vegetation and ‘permanent
hedges, the deposits of nuisance and vermin,” has no pavement,
no straightness of streets; the sandy thoroughfare in some quar-
ters is torn by the rain into gullies, impassable with convenience
to any animal but a kangaroo. Francia, after meditation, decides
on having it remodelled, paved, straightened;—irradiated with the
image of the one regular man. Robertson laughs to see a Dicta-
tor, sovereign ruler, straddling about, “taking observations with
his theodolite,’ and so forth : O Robertson, if there was no other
man that could observe with a theodolite 2 Nay, it seems further,
the improvement of Assumpcion was attended, once more, with
the dreadfullest tyrannies: peaceable citizens dreaming no harm,
no active harm to any soul, but mere peaceable passive dirt and
1 Perez.
DR. FRANCIA. 287
irregularity to all souls, were ordered to pull-down their houses
which happened to stand in the middle of streets; forced (under
rustle of the gallows) to draw their purses, and rebuild them
elsewhere ! It is horrible. Nay, they said, Francia's true aim in
these improvements, in this cutting-down of the luxuriant ‘cross
hedges' and architectural monstrosities, was merely to save him-
self from being shot, from under cover, as he rode through the
place. It may be so : but Assumpcion is now an improved paved
City, much squarer in the corners (and with the planned capacity,
it seems, of growing ever squarer'); passable with convenience not
to kangaroos only, but to wooden bullock-carts and all vehicles and
animals.
Indeed our Messrs. Robertson find something comic as well as
tragic in Dictator Francia; and enliven their running shriek, all
through this Reign of Terror, with a pleasant vein of conventional
satire. One evening, for example, a Robertson being about to
leave Paraguay for England, and having waited upon Francia to
make the parting compliments, Francia, to the Robertson's ex-
treme astonishment, orders-in a large bale of goods, orders them
to be opened on the table there: Tobacco, poncho-cloth, and other
produce of the country, all of first-rate quality, and with the prices
ticketed. These goods this astonished Robertson is to carry to the
‘Bar of the House of Commons,’ and there to say, in such fashion
and phraseology as a native may know to be suitable: “Mr.
Speaker-Dr. Francia is Dictator of Paraguay, a country of tropi-
cal fertility and 100,000 square miles in extent, producing these
commodities, at these prices. With nearly all foreign nations he
declines altogether to trade; but with the English, such is his
notion of them, he is willing and desirous to trade. These are his
commodities, in endless quantity; of this quality, at these prices.
He wants arms, for his part. What say you, Mr. Speaker?"—Sure
enough, our Robertson, arriving at the ‘Bar of the House of Com-
mons' with such a message, would have cut an original figure
Not to the ‘House of Commons' was this message properly ad-
dressed ; but to the English Nation; which Francia, idiot-like,
Supposed to be somehow represented, and made accessible and
addressable in the House of Commons. It was a strange imbe-
cility in any Dictator —The Robertson, we find accordingly, did
not take this bale of goods to the Bar of the House of Commons;
nay, what was far worse, he did not, owing to accidents, go to
England at all, or bring any arms back to Francia at all : hence,
indeed. Francia's unreasonable detestation of him, hardly to be
restrained within the bounds of common politeness | A man who
| Perez.
288 MISCELLANIES.
said he would do, and then did not do, was at no time a kind of
man admirable to Francia. Large sections of this Reign of Terror
are a sort of unmusical sonata, or free duet with variations, to this
text: “How unadmirable a hide-merchant that does not keep his
word ""—“How censurable, not to say ridiculous and imbecile, the
want of common politeness in a Dictator "
Francia was a man that liked performance: and sham-perform-
ance, in Paraguay as elsewhere, was a thing too universal. What
a time of it had this strict man with unreal performers, imaginary
workmen, public and private, cleric and laic Ye Guachos, -it is
no child's-play, casting-out those Seven Devils from you !
Monastic or other entirely slumberous church-establishments
could expect no great favour from Francia. Such of them as
seemed incurable, entirely slumberous, he somewhat roughly shook
awake, somewhat sternly ordered to begone. Debout, canaille fai-
néante, as his prophet Raynal says; Debout: atta, champs, aua, ateliers'
Can I have you sit here, droning old metre through your nose :
your heart asleep in mere gluttony, the while; and all Paraguay a
wilderness or nearly so, the Heaven's blessed sunshine growing
mere tangles, lianas, yellow-fevers, rattlesnakes, and jaguars on it 2
Up, swift, to work;-or mark this governmental horsewhip, what
the crack of it is, what the cut of it is like to be l—Incurable, for
one class, seemed archbishops, bishops, and such like ; given
merely to a sham-warfare against extinct devils. At the crack of
Francia's terrible whip they went, dreading what the cut of it
might be. A cheap worship in Paraguay, according to the humour
of the people, Francia left; on condition that it did no mischief.
Wooden saints and the like ware, he also left sitting in their
niches: no new ones, even on solicitation, would he give a doit to
buy. Being petitioned to provide a new patron-saint for one of
his new Fortifications once, he made this answer: “O People of
Paraguay, how long will you continue idiots? While I was a
Catholic, I thought as you do : but I now see there are no saints
but good cannons that will guard our frontiers "1 This also is
noteworthy. He inquired of the two Swiss Surgeons, what their
religion was ; and then added, “Be of what religion you like, here:
Christians, Jews, Mussulmans,—but don't be Atheists.”
Equal trouble had Francia with his laic workers, and indeed
with all manner of workers ; for it is in Paraguay as elsewhere,
like priest like people. Francia had extensive barrack-buildings,
may city-buildings (as we have seen), arm-furnishings; immensities
of work going on ; and his workmen had in general a tendency to
be imaginary. He could get no work out of them ; only a more or
| Rengger.
li) R. FRANCIA, 289
less deceptive similitude of work | Masons so-called, builders of
houses, did not build, but merely seem to build ; their walls would
not bear weather, stand on their bases in high winds. Hodge-
razors, in all conceivable kinds, were openly marketed, ‘which were
never meant to shave, but only to be sold !' For a length of time
Francia's righteous soul struggled sore, yet unexplosively, with
the propensities of these unfortunate men. By rebuke, by remon-
strance, encouragement, offers of reward, and every vigilance and
effort, he strove to convince them that it was unfortunate for a Son
of Adam to be an imaginary workman; that every Son of Adam
had better make razors which were meant to shave. In vain, all in
vain At length, Francia lost patience with them. “Thou wretched
Fraction, wilt thou be the ninth part even of a tailor 2 Does it be-
seem thee to weave cloth of devil’s-dust instead of true wool; and
cut and sew it as if thou wert not a tailor, but the fraction of a
very tailor! I cannot endure every thing !” Francia, in despair,
erected his ‘Workman's Gallows.’ Yes, that institution of the
country did actually exist in Paraguay; men and workmen saw it
with eyes. A most remarkable, and, on the whole, not unbenefi-
cial institution of society there. Robertson gives us the following
scene with the Belt-maker of Assumpcion; which, be it literal, or
in part poetic, does, no doubt of it, hold the mirror up to Nature
in an altogether true, and Surely in a very surprising manner :
“In came, one afternoon, a poor Shoemaker, with a couple of grena-
diers' belts, neither according to the fancy of the Dictator. “Sentinel,'—
said he, -and in came the sentinel; when the following conversation
ensued:
“Dictator. “Take this bribonazo” (a very favourite word of the Dic-
tator's, and which being interpreted, means “most impertinent scoundrel")
—“take this bribonazo to the gibbet over the way; walk him under it
half-a-dozen times:—and now,” said he, turning to the trembling shoe-
maker, “bring me such another pair of belts, and instead of walking under
the gallows, we shall try how you can swing upon it.”
“Shoemaker. “Please your Excellency, I have done my best.”
“Dictator. “Well, bribon, if this be your best, I shall do my best to
see that you never again mar a bit of the State's leather. The belts are of
no use to me; but they will do very well to hang you upon the little frame-
work which the grenadier will show you.”
* Shoemaker. “God bless your Excellency, the Lord forbid! I am
your vassal, your slave: day and might have I served, and will serve my
lord; only give me two days more to prepare the belts; y por el alma de
wn triste zapatéro (by the soul of a poor shoemaker), I will make them to
your Excellency's liking.”
“Dictator. “Off with him, sentinel!”
* Sentinel. “Venga, bribon, Come along, you rascal.”
* Shoemaker. “Señor Excelentisimo, this very night I will make the
belts according to your Excellency's pattern.”
* Dictator. “Well, you shall have till the morning; but still you must
VOL, IW. U
290 MISCELLANIES.
pass under the gibbet: it is a salutary process, and may at once quicken
the work and improve the workmanship.”
“Sentinel. “Vamonos, bribon; the Supreme commands it.”
“Off was the Shoemaker marched: he was, according to orders, passed
and repassed under the gibbet; and then allowed to retire to his stall.'
He worked there with such an alacrity and sibylline enthusi-
asm, all night, that his belts on the morrow were without parallel
in South America;-and he is now, if still in this life, Beltmaker-
general to Paraguay, a prosperous man; grateful to Francia and
the gallows, we may hope, for casting certain of the Seven Devils
out of him
Such an institution of society would evidently not be intro-
ducible, under that simple form, in our old-constituted European
countries. Yet it may be asked of constitutional persons in these
times, By what succedaneum they mean to supply the want of it,
then 2 In a community of imaginary workmen, how can you pre-
tend to have any government, or social thing whatever, that were
real? Certain Tenpound Franchisers, with their ‘tremendous
cheers,’ are invited to reflect on this. With a community of quack
workmen, it is by the law of Nature impossible that other than a
quack government can be got to exist. Constitutional or other,
with ballot-boxes or with none, your society in all its phases, ad-
ministration, legislation, teaching, preaching, praying, and writing
periodicals per sheet, will be a quack society; terrible to live in,
disastrous to look upon. Such an institution of society, adapted
to our European ways, seems pressingly desirable. O Guachos,
South-American and European, what a business is it, casting out
your Seven Devils —
But perhaps the reader would like to take a view of Dr. Fran-
cia in the concrete, there as he looks and lives; managing that
thousand-sided business for his Paraguenos, in the time of Surgeon
Rengger? It is our last extract, or last view of the Dictator, who
must hang no longer on our horizon here :
‘I have already said, that Doctor Francia, so soon as he found himself
at the head of affairs, took-up his residence in the habitation of the former
Governors of Paraguay. This Edifice, which is one of the largest in As-
sumpcion, was erected by the Jesuits, a short time before their expulsion,
as a house of retreat for laymen, who devoted themselves to certain spi-
ritual exercises instituted by Saint Ignatius. This Structure the Dictator
repaired and embellished; he has detached it from the other houses in
the City, by interposing wide streets. Here he lives, with four slaves, a
little negro, one male and two female mulattoes, whom he treats with great
mildness. The two males perform the functions of valet-de-chambre and
groom. One of the two mulatto women is his cook, and the other takes
care of his wardrobe.
* He leads a very regular life. The first rays of the sun very rarely
find him in bed. So soon as he rises, the negro brings a chafing-dish, a
DR. FRANCIA. 291
kettle and a pitcher of water; the water is made to boil there. The Dic-
tator then prepares, with the greatest possible care, his maté, or Paraguay
tea. Having taken this, he walks under the Interior Colonnade that looks
upon the court; and smokes a cigar, which he first takes care to unroll, in
order to ascertain that there is nothing dangerous in it, though it is his
own sister who makes-up his cigars for him. At six o'clock comes the
barber, an ill-washed, ill-clad mulatto, given to drink too; but the only
member of the faculty whom he trusts in. If the Dictator is in good hu-
mour, he chats with the barber; and often in this manner makes use of
him to prepare the public for his projects: this barber may be said to be
his official gazette. He then steps out, in his dressing-gown of printed
calico, to the Outer Colonnade, an open space with pillars, which ranges
all round the building: here he walks about, receiving at the same time
such persons as are admitted to an audience. Towards seven, he with-
draws to his room, where he remains till nine; the officers and other func-
tionaries then come to make their reports, and receive his orders. At
eleven o'clock, the fiel de fecho (principal secretary) brings the papers
which are to be inspected by him, and writes from his dictation till noon.
At noon all the officers retire, and Doctor Francia sits down to table. His
dinner, which is extremely frugal, he always himself orders. When the
cook returns from market, she deposits her provisions at the door of her
master's room; the Doctor then comes out, and selects what he wishes for
himself.
“After dinner he takes his siesta. On awakening, he drinks his maté,
and Smokes a cigar, with the same precautions as in the morning. From
this, till four or five, he occupies himself with business, when the escort
to attend him on his promenade arrives. The barber then enters and
dresses his hair, while his horse is getting ready. During his ride, the
Doctor inspects the public works, and the barracks, particularly those of
the cavalry, where he has had a set of apartments prepared for his own
use. While riding, though surrounded by his escort, he is armed with a
sabre, and a pair of double-barrelled pocket-pistols. He returns home
about nightfall, and sits down to study till nine; then he goes to supper,
which consists of a roast pigeon and a glass of wine. If the weather be
fine, he again walks in the Outer Colonnade, where he often remains till a
very late hour. At ten o'clock he gives the watchword. On returning
into the house, he fastens all the doors himself.”
Francia's brother was already mad. Francia banished thus
sister by and by, because she had employed one of his grenadiers,
one of the public government's soldiers, on some errand of her
own." Thou lonely Francia :
Francia's escort of cavalry used to ‘strike men with the flat of
their swords,' much more assault them with angry epithets, if they
neglected to salute the Dictator as he rode out. Both he and they,
moreover, kept a sharp eye for assassins; but never found any,
thanks perhaps to their watchfulness. Had Francia been in Paris |
—At one time also, there arose annoyance in the Dictatorial mind
from idle crowds gazing about his Government House, and his
proceedings there. Orders were given that all people were to
* Rengger.
292 MISCELLANIES.
move on, about their affairs, straight across this government es-
planade; instructions to the sentry, that if any person paused to
gaze, he was to be peremptorily bidden, Move on 1—and if he still
did not move, to be shot with ball-cartridge. All Paraguay men
moved on, looking to the ground, swift as possible, straight as
possible, through those precarious spaces; and the affluence of
crowds thinned itself almost to the verge of solitude. One day,
after many weeks or months, a human figure did loiter, did gaze
in the forbidden ground: “Move on 1" cried the sentry sharply;
—no effect: “Move on 1" and again none. “Move on 1" for the
third time:–alas, the unfortunate human figure was an Indian,
did not understand human speech, stood merely gaping interro-
gatively :—whereupon a shot belches-forth at him, the whewing of
winged lead; which luckily only whewed, and did not hit ! The
astonishment of the Indian must have been considerable, his re-
treat-pace one of the rapidest. As for Francia, he summoned the
sentry with hardly suppressed rage, “What news, Amigo 3’ The
sentry quoted “Your Excellency's order;” Francia cannot recol-
lect such an order; commands now, that at all events such order
C€3,S62.
It remains still that we say a word, not in excuse, which might
be difficult, but in explanation, which is possible enough, of Fran-
cia's unforgivable insult to human Science in the person of M.
Aimé Bonpland. M. Aimé Bonpland, friend of Humboldt, after
much botanical wandering, did, as all men know, settle himself in
Entre Rios, an Indian or Jesuit country close on Francia, now
burnt to ashes by Artigas; and there set-up a considerable esta-
blishment for the improved culture of Paraguay tea. With an eye
to botany? Botany ? Why, yes, and perhaps to commerce still
more. “Botany!” exclaims Francia : “It is shopkeeping agri-
culture, and tends to prove fatal to my shop ! Who is this extra-
neous French individual? Artigas could not give him right to
Entre Rios; Entre Rios is at least as much mine as Artigas's
Bring him to me !” Next night, or next, Paraguay soldiers sur-
round M. Bonpland's tea-establishment; gallop M. Bonpland over
the frontiers, to his appointed village in the interior; root out his
tea-plants; scatter his four-hundred Indians, and—we know the
rest Hard-hearted Monopoly refusing to listen to the charmings
of Public Opinion or Royal-Society presidents, charm they never
so wisely M. Bonpland, at full liberty some time since, resides
still in South America;-and is expected by the Robertsons, not
altogether by this Editor, to publish his Narrative, with a due
running shriek.
Francia's treatment of Artigas, his old enemy, the bandit and
DR. FRANCIA, 293
firebrand, reduced now to beg shelter of him, was good; humane,
even dignified. Francia refused to see or treat with such a person,
as he had ever done; but readily granted him a place of residence
in the interior, and ‘thirty piasters a month till he died.' The
bandit cultivated fields, did charitable deeds, and passed a life of
penitence, for his few remaining years. His bandit followers,
such of them as took to plundering again, says M. Rengger, ‘were
instantly seized and shot.’
On the other hand, that anecdote of Francia's dying Father—
requires to be confirmed ! It seems, the old man, who, as we saw,
had long since quarrelled with his son, was dying, and wished to
be reconciled. Francia, “ was busy;-what use was it?—could
not come.” A second still more pressing message arrives: “The
old father dare not die unless he see his son ; fears he shall never
enter Heaven, if they be not reconciled.”—“Then let him enter
!” said Francia, “I will not come !”! If this anecdote be
true, it is certainly of all that are in circulation about Dr. Francia,
by far the worst. If Francia, in that death-hour, could not forgive
his poor old Father, whatsoever he had, or could in the murkiest
sultriest imagination be conceived to have done against him, then
let no man forgive Dr. Francial But the accuracy of public
rumour, in regard to a Dictator who has executed forty persons,
is also a thing that can be guessed at. To whom was it, by name
and surname, that Francia delivered this extraordinary response ?
Did the man make, or can he now be got to make, affidavit of it,
to credible articulate-speaking persons resident on this earth 2 If
so, let him do it—for the sake of the Psychological Sciences.
One last fact more. Our lonesome Dictator, living among
Guachos, had the greatest pleasure, it would seem, in rational
conversation,--with Robertson, with Rengger, with any kind of
intelligent human creature, when such could be fallen-in with,
which was rarely. He would question you with eagerness about
the ways of men in foreign places, the properties of things un-
known to him; all human interest and insight was interesting to
him. Only persons of no understanding being near him for most
part, he had to content himself with silence, a meditative cigar
and cup of maté. O Francia, though thou hadst to execute forty
persons, I am not without some pity for thee!
In this manner, all being yet dark and void for European eyes,
have we to imagine that the man Rodriguez Francia passed, in a
remote, but highly remarkable, not unquestionable or unques-
tioned manner, across the confused theatre of this world. For
| Robertson.
294 MISCELLANIES.
some thirty years, he was all the government his native Paraguay
could be said to have. For some six-and-twenty years he was ex-
press Sovereign of it; for some three, or some two years, a Sove-
reign with bared sword, stern as Rhadamanthus: through all his
years, and through all his days, since the beginning of him, a
Man or Sovereign of iron energy and industry, of great and severe
labour. So lived Dictator Francia, and had no rest; and only in
Eternity any prospect of rest. A Life of terrible labour;-but for
the last twenty years, the Fulgencio Plot being once torn in pieces,
and all now quiet under him, it was a more equable labour: severe
but equable, as that of a hardy draught-steed fitted in his harness;
no longer plunging and champing; but pulling steadily,–till he
do all his rough miles, and get to his still home.
So dark were the Messrs. Robertson concerning Francia, they
had not been able to learn in the least whether, when their Book
came out, he was living or dead. He was living then, he is dead
now. He is dead, this remarkable Francia; there is no doubt
about it: have not we and our readers heard pieces of his Funeral
Sermon He died on the 20th of September 1840, as the Rev.
Perez informs us; the people crowding round his Government
House with much emotion, nay “with tears, as Perez will have it.
Three Excellencies succeeded him; as some ‘Directorate,’ ‘Junta
Gubernativa," or whatever the name of it is, before whom this reve-
rend Perez preaches. God preserve them many years.
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARLIAMENT.
[1844.j
ANTHONY WooD, a man to be depended on for accuracy, states as
a fact that John Pym, Clerk of the Exchequer, and others, did,
during the autumn of 1640, ride to and fro over England, inciting
the people to choose members of their faction. Pym and others.
Pym ‘rode about the country to promote elections of the Puri-
‘tanical brethren to serve in Parliament; wasted his body much
‘in carrying-on the cause, and was himself, as we well know,
‘ elected a Burgess." As for Hampden, he had long been accus-
tomed to ride: ‘being a person of antimonarchical principles,'
says Anthony, “he did not only ride, for several years before the
‘ Grand Rebellion broke out, into Scotland, to keep consults with
‘the Covenanting brethren there; but kept his circuits to several
“Puritanical houses in England; particularly to that of Knightley
‘ in Northamptonshire,' to Fawsley Park, then and now the house
of the Knightleys, “and also to that of William Lord Say at
Broughton near Banbury in Oxfordshire:”—Mr. Hampden might
well be on horseback in election-time. These Pyms, these Hamp-
dens, Knightleys were busy riding over England in those months:
it is a little fact which Anthony Wood has seen fit to preserve
for us.
A little fact, which, if we meditate it, and picture in any measure
the general humour and condition of the England that then was,
will spread itself into great expanse in our imagination | What
did they say, do, think, these patriotic missionaries, “as they rode
about the country?' What did they propose, advise, in the succes-
sive Townhalls, Country-houses, and “Places of Consult 2' John
Pym, Clerk of the Exchequer, Mr. Hampden of Great Hampden,
riding to and fro, lodging with the Puritan Squires of this English
Nation, must have had notable colloquies | What did the Towns-
people say in reply to them? We have a great curiosity to know
about it: how this momentous General Election, of autumn 1640,
went on ; what the physiognomy or figure of it was; how ‘the
‘ remarkablest Parliament that ever sat, the father of all Free
1 FRASER'S MAGAZINE, No. 178. &
2 Wood's Athenae (Bliss's Edition), iii. 73, 59; Nugent's Hampden, i. 327.
296 MISCET,LANIES.
‘British Parliaments, American Congresses and French Conven-
‘tions, that have sat since in this world, was got together
To all which curiosities and inquiries, meanwhile, there is as
good as no answer whatever. Wood's fact, such as it is, has to
twinkle for us like one star in a heaven otherwise all dark, and
shed what light it can. There is nothing known of this great
business, what it was, what it seemed to be, how in the least it
transacted itself, in any town, or county, or locality. James Heath,
‘Carrion Heath’ as Smelfungus calls him, does, in his Flagellum
(or Flagitium! as it properly is), write some stuff about Oliver
Cromwell and Cambridge Election; concerning which latter and
Cleaveland the Poet there is also another blockheadigm on record:
—but these, and the like, mere blockheadisms, pitch-dark stupidi-
ties and palpable falsities, what can we do with these ? Forget
them, as soon as possible, to all eternity;-that is the evident
rule: Admit that we do honestly know nothing, instead of mis-
knowing several things, and in some sense all things, which is a
great misfortune in comparison
Contemporary men had no notion, as indeed they seldom have
in such cases, what an enormous work they were going-on with ;
and nobody took note of this election more than of any former
one. Besides, if they had known, they had other business than
to write accounts of it for us. But how could anybody know that
this was to be the Long Parliament, and to cut his Majesty's head
off, among other feats 2 A very ‘spirited election, I dare believe:—
but there had been another election that same year, equally Spirited,
which had issued in a Short Parliament, and mere ‘second Epis-
copal War.’ There had been three prior elections, sufficiently
spirited ; and had issued, each of them, in what we may call a
futile shriek; their Parliaments swiftly vanishing again.
Sure enough, from whatever cause it be, the world, as we said,
knows not anywhere of the smallest authentic notice concerning
this matter, which is now so curious to us, and is partly becoming
ever more curious. In the old Memoirs, not entirely so dull when
once we understand them ; in the multitudinous rubbish-moun-
tains of old Civil War Pamphlets (some thirty or fifty thousand of
them in the British Museum alone, unread, unsorted, unappointed,
unannealed !), which will continue dull till, by real labour and
insight, of which there is at present little hope, the ten-thousandth
part of them be extracted; and the nine-thousand nine-hundred
and ninety-nine parts of them be eaten by moths, or employed in
1 Or, Life of Olver Cromwell (London, 1663): probably, all things con-
sidered, the brutallest Platitude this English Nation has to show for itself in
writing.
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARLIAMENT. 297
domestic cookery when fuel grows scarce;—in these chaotic masses
of old dull printing, there is not to be met with, in long years of
manipulation, one solitary trait of any election, in any point of
English land, to this same Long Parliament, the remarkablest
that ever sat in the world. England was clearly all alive them,-
with a moderate crop of corn just reaped from it ; and other things
not just ready for reaping yet. In Newcastle, in ‘the Bishoprick’
and that region, a Scotch Army, bristling with pike and musket,
sonorous with drum and psalm-book, all snugly garrisoned and
billeted “with 850l. a-day;’ over in Yorkshire an English Army,
not quite so snugly; and a “Treaty of Rippon' going on ; and
immense things in the wind, and Pym and Hampden riding to
and fro to hold “ consults:’ it must have been an election worth
looking at . But none of us will see it; the Opacities have been
pleased to suppress this election, considering it of no interest. It
is erased from English and from human Memory, or was never
recorded there, (owing to the stupor and dark nature of that
faculty, we may well say). It is a lost election; swallowed in the
dark deeps : premit atra Noa. Black Night; and this one fact of
Anthony Wood's more or less faintly twinkling there !
In such entire darkness, it was a welcome discovery which the
present Editor made, of certain official or semi-official Documents,
legal testimonies and signed affidavits, relative to the Election for
Suffolk, such as it actually showed itself to men's observation in
the Town of Ipswich on that occasion: Documents drawn-up under
the exact eye of Sir Simonds D'Ewes, High-Sheriff of Suffolk; all
carefully preserved these two centuries, and still lying safe for the
inspection of the curious among the Harley Manuscripts in the
British Museum. Sir Simonds, as will be gradually seen, had his
reasons for getting these Documents drawn-up ; and luckily, when
the main use of them was over, his thrifty, historical turn of mind
induced him to preserve them for us. A man of sublime Anti-
quarian researches, Ilaw-learning, human and divine accomplish-
ments, and generally somewhat Grandisonian in his ways; a man
of scrupulous Puritan integrity, of highflown conscientiousness,
exactitude and distinguished perfection ; ambitious to be the pink
of Christian country-gentlemen and magistrates of counties; really
a most spotless man and High-Sheriff; how shall he suffer, in
Parliament, or out of it, to the latest posterity, any shadow from
election-brabbles or the like indecorous confusion to rest on his
clear-polished character? Hence these Documents;–for there
had an unseemly brabble, and altercation from unreasonable per-
sons, fallen-out at this Election, which “might have ended in
998 MISCE], LANIES.
blood,' from the nose or much deeper, had Sir Simonds been a
less perfect High-Sheriff! Hence these Documents, we say; and
they are preserved to us.
The Documents, it must be at once owned, are somewhat of
the wateriest: but the reader may assure himself they are of a
condensed, emphatic and very potent nature, in comparison with
the generality of Civil-War documents and records ! Of which
latter indeed, and what quality they are of, the human mind, till
Once it has earnestly tried them, can form no manner of idea.
We had long heard of Dulness, and thought we knew it a little;
but here first is the right dead Dulness, Dulness its very self!
Ditch-water, fetid bilge-water, ponds of it and oceans of it; wide-
spread genuine Dulness without parallel in this world: such is
the element in which that history of our Heroic Seventeenth
Century as yet rots and swims . The hapless inquirer swashes to
and fro, in the sorrow of his heart: if in an acre of stagnant water,
he can pick-up half a peascod, let him thank his stars |
This Editor, in such circumstances, read the D'Ewes Docu-
ments, and re-read them, not without some feeling of satisfaction.
Such as they are, they bring one face to face with an actual elec-
tion, at Ipswich, “in Mr. Hambies' field, on Monday the 19th of
October 1640, an extreme windy day.' There is the concrete
figure of that extreme windy Monday, Monday gone Two-hundred
and odd years: the express image of Old Ipswich, and Old England,
and that Day; exact to Nature herself—though in a most dark
glass, the more is the pity! But it is a glass; it is the authentic
mind, namely, or seeing-faculty of Sir Simonds D'Ewes and his
Affidavit-makers, who did look on the thing with eyes and minds,
and got a real picture of it for themselves. Alas, we too could
see it, the very thing as it then and there was, through these
men's poor limited authentic picture of it here preserved for us,
had we eyesight enough 5–a consideration almost of a desperate
nature | Eyesight enough, O reader: a man in that case were a
god, and could do various things l—
We will not overload these poor Documents with commentary.
Iet the public, as we have done, look with its own eyes. To the
commonest eyesight a markworthy old fact or two may visibly
disclose itself; and in shadowy outline and sequence, to the in-
terior regions of the seeing-faculty, if the eyesight be beyond com-
mon, a whole world of old facts, an old contemporary England
at large, as it stood and lived, on that “extreme windy day,'—may
more or less dimly suggest themselves. The reader is to trans-
port himself to Ipswich; and, remembering always that it is two
centuries and four years ago, look about him there as he can.
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARI, LAMENT. 299
Some opportunity for getting these poor old Documents copied
into modern hand has chanced to arise ; and here, with an entire
welcome to all faithful persons who are sufficiently patient of dul-
ness for the sake of direct historical knowledge, they are given-
forth in print.
It is to be premised that the Candidates in this Election are
Three: Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston and Sir Philip Parker on the
Puritan side; and Mr. Henry North, son of Sir Roger North, on
the Court or Royalist side. Sir Roger is himself already elected,
or about to be elected, for the borough of Eye;—and now Mr.
Henry, heir-apparent, is ambitious to be Knight of the Shire.
He, if he can, will oust one of the two Puritans, he cares little
which, and it shall be tried on Monday.
To most readers these Candidates are dark and inane, mere
Outlines of Candidates: but Suffolk readers, in a certain dim way,
recognise something of them. ‘The Parkers still continue in due
‘brilliancy, in that shire: a fine old place, at Long Melford, near
‘Bury:-but this Parker,’ says our Suffolk monitor,” “is of another
“family, the family of Lord Morley-and-Monteagle, otherwise not
“unknown in English History.” The Barnardistons too, it would
appear, ‘had a noble mansion in the east side of the county,
‘ though it has quite vanished now, and corn is growing on the
‘ site of it, and the family is somewhat eclipsed. The Norths
are from Mildenhall, from Finborough, Laxfield; the whole world
knows the North kindred, Lord Keeper Norths, Lord Guildford
Norths, of which these Norths of ours are a junior twig. Six
lines are devoted by Collins Dryasdust” to our Candidate Mr.
Henry, of Mildenhall, and to our Candidate's Father and Uncle;
testifying indisputably that they lived, and that they died.
Let the reader look in the dim faces, Royalist and Puritan, of
these respectable Vanished Gentlemen; let him fancy their old
Great Houses, in this side of the county, or that other, standing
all young, firm, fresh-pargeted, and warm with breakfast-fire, on
that “extreme windy morning,' which have fallen into such a state
of dimness now ! Let the reader, we say, look about him in that
old Ipswich ; in that old-vanished population: perhaps he may
recognise a thing or two. There is the old ‘Market Cross,’ for
1 D. E. Davy, Esq., of Ufford, in that County, whose learning in Suffolk
History is understood to be supreme, and whose obliging disposition we have
ourselves experienced.
* “It was to William Parker, Lord Monteagle, ancestor of this Sir Philip,
‘ that the Letter was addressed which saved the King and Parliament from
• the Gunpowder Plot. Sir Philip had been High-Sheriff in 1637; he died in
* 1675 °–Dryasdust Mss.
* Peerage, iv. 62, 63 (London, 1741).
300 MISCELIANIES.
one thing ; “an old Grecian circular building, of considerable
“ diameter; a dome raised on distinct pillars, so that you could go
‘freely in and out between them; a figure of Justice on the top;"
which the elderly men in Ipswich can still recollect, for it did not
vanish till some thirty years ago. The “Corn Hill' again, being
better rooted, has not vanished hitherto, but is still extant as a
Street and Hill; and the Townhall stands on one side of it.
Samuel Duncon, the Town-constable, shall speak first. ‘The
“Duncons were a leading family in the Corporation of Ipswich ;
‘ Robert Duncon was patron of the ’ &c. &c.: so it would appear ;
but this Samuel, Town-constable, must have been of the more
decayed branches, poor fellow ! What most concerns us is, that
he seems to do his constabling in a really judicious manner, with
unspeakable reverence to the High-Sheriff; that he expresses him-
self like a veracious person, and writes a remarkably distinct hand.
We have sometimes, for light's sake, slightly modified Mr. Duncon's
punctuation; but have respected his and the High-Sheriff's spell-
ing, though it deserves little respect, and have in no case, never
so slightly, meddled with his sense. The questionable italic letters
in brackets are evident interpolations;–omissible, if need be.
SUFFOLKE ELECTION. 1
No. I.
[Samuel Duncon testifieth.]
* Memorandum, That upon Monday the 19th day of October this pre-
sent year 1640, the election of two Knights for the Shire was at Ipswich
in Suffolke ; the Writt being read about eight of the clocke in the morning:
and in the Markett Crosse where the County Court is generally kept,
Mr. Henry North sonne of Sir Roger North was there at the reading of
the said Writt. All this time the other two, namely, Sir Nathaniel Bar-
nardiston and Sir Philip Parker, were at the King's Head; and Mr. North
was carried about neare halfe an houre before the other two came [Carried
about in his chair by the jubilant people: Let all men see, and come and
wote for him. The chairing was then the first step, it would seem]; and
after the other two were taken there, Mr. North was carried into the field
neare the said towne, called Mr. Hambie's feild:” and the said High-Sher-
riffe was there polling, about halfe-an-houre before the other two Knights
knewe either of his being polling, or of the High-Sherriffs intention to
take the Poll in that place. But at length the two Knights were carried
into the said feild; and before they came there, the tables which were sett
for them, the said Sir Nathaniel and Sir Philip, were thrust downe, and
* From Harleian Mss., British Museum (Parliamentary Affairs collected
by Sir S. D'Ewes), No. 165, fol. 5-8.
? Or ‘Hanbie's field, as the Duncon Ms. has it : he probably means Hamby.
‘A family of the latter_name had property at Ipswich and about it, in those
‘ times.”—Dryasdust Mss.
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARLIAMENT. 301
troaden under foot [Such a pressure and crowding was there /]; and they
both caused but one table to bee sett there, till about three of the clocke
of the afternoone, the said day, about which time Sir Nathaniel had another
table sett there, a little remote from the other. And when they went about
to poll, they wanted a clarke. I, Samuell Duncon, standing by, some re-
quested mee; and upon the Under-Sherriff's allowance, I did take names,
and one Mr. Fishar with mee, he for Sir Nathaniel, and myselfe for Sir
Philip; although many that came for the one, came for the other; and if
any came for Mr. North (as there did some), wee tooke them likewise for
him. And Mr. John Clinch of Creting, Sir Roger North's brother-in-law,
or some other of Mr. North his [“ North his” means North's] freinds, stoode
by all the time. And after the space of one quarter of an houre, came Sir
Tobert Crane,” and did oppose against Mr. Fishar; and then came the
said High-Sherriffe himselfe to the table, wheere wee weere writing, and
discharged Mr. Fishar, and tooke his papers of him ; and at the request of
Sir Roger North did appoint one Mr. John Sheppard to write in his place,
who then tooke names for Sir Nathaniel, and myselfe for Sir Philip. About
one houre after, Sir Robert Crane and the rest of Mr. North his friends
moved Sir Nathaniel that wee might leave off polling for him, and Sir
Philip, and take the Poll only for Mr. North ; for, they said, Mr. North's
table was much pestred, and many of his men would be gone out of towne,
being neare night, and the like reasons. Which reasons might as well
have been alledged in the behalfe of Sir Nathaniel and Sir Philip : but
without reasoning, Sir Nathaniel did grant them their desire; and presently
Sir Robert Crane went and called all that were for Mr. North to come to
that table; and soe Mr. Sheppard and myselfe tooke for Mr. North as long
as wee could well see; which I think was about one houre. Having done,
wee gave upp our Bookes, and did goe to Mrs. Penning's house in Ipswich,
where Sir Roger North was then with the said High-Sherriffe: and Iheard
no oppositions at that time taken against any thing that had passed that
Monday at the taking of the said Poll; but Sir Roger North and the said
High-Sherriffe did part very curteously and friendly, each from the other.
“But by the next morning it was generally thought, that Sir Nathaniel
and Sir Philip had outstripped Mr. North, about 500 voices apiece, at the
Poll taken on the Monday foregoing; soe as the said Sir Roger being, it
seemes, much vexed thereat, came to the said High-Sherriffe's lodging about
eight of the clocke, the same Teuesday morning, and begann to make cavills
against what had passed at the taking of the Poll the day past. And then
they went to the Poll againe; and two tables were sett in the Markett
Crosse,” whereat the Poll was taken for Mr. North by four clarkes on oath,
two writing the same names. About 12 of the clocke, the same forenoone,
the Court was adjourned to two of the clocke in the afternoone. About
which time the said High-Sheriffe repairing thither againe, did with much
patience attend the same Mr. North's Poll, sitting sometimes about a quar-
! “The family of Clinch, or Clench as it should be spelt, were of note in
“Suffolk. They descended from John Clench of? &c. &c., “buried in 1607,
‘with a handsome monument to his memory. He was one of the Justices of
‘the King's Bench. His Grandson, John Clench, Esq., was High-Sheriff of
‘the County in 1639.”—Dryasdust Mss. This, I think, is our and Samuel
Duncon's Clench.
* * Sir Robert Crane was descended from a Norfolk family, which migrated.’
&c. “He was created a Baronet in May 1627. He was of Chilton Hall, near
‘Sudbury; he died in 1642.’—Ibid.
** A spacious place; there was room enough in it: see the old copperplate
* of 1780.”—Dryasdust Mss.
302 MilSCELLANIES.
ter of an houre before any came in to give their voice, for the said Mr.
North. And as the said High-Sheriffe was soe attending his [Sir Roger
North's] said sonne's Poll, about three of the clocke the same afternoone,
came Sir Roger North, accompanied with divers gentlemen, most of them
armed with swords or rapiers [Lo, there !], into the said Mearkett Crosse;
and the said High-Sherriffe very respectfully attending with silence to what
the said Sir Roger North had to say, he fell into most outrageous, unjust
and scandalous criminations against the said High-Sherriffe; charging him
to have dealt partiallie and unjustlie, and to have wronged his said sonne.
To all which violent accusations, the said High-Sherriffe, having desired
silence, did answeare soe fully and readily, as it gave all unpartiall and
honest men full satisfaction. A while after the said High-Sherriffe's Speech
was ended, the said Sir Roger North with divers others went upp and downe
in such a manner on the said Corne Hill, as I, the said Samuell Duncon,
fearing that much danger and bloudshedd might ensue, and being one of
the constables of Ipswich, did in the King's Majestie's name charge some
of º company to desist [Highly proper, in such a place as the Corne
Hill ſl.
“SAMUEL DUNCON."
No. II.
[Samuel Duncon testifieth for the second time.]
* Monday, the 19th of October 1640.
“When I came into the field where the Polling was for the Knights of
the Shire, the first place I settled at was an Elm [Nota bene] in the mid-
dle of the feild, where there were polling for Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston
and Sir Philip Parker: and there was a long table, at one end whereof was
Mr. Robert Dowe, clerke; and he did write for both the foresaid knights;
and Mr. Farran, Under-Sherriffe,” did sweare the people; and at the other
end of the same table did Mr. Robert Clarke write for Sir Philip, and Mr.
Peter Fisher wrot for Sir Nathaniel; and sometimes Mr. Chopping” did
sweare the people at that end, and sometimes Mr. Robert Clerke did Sweare
them.
“After I had stood there one houre or thereabout, Mr. Robert Clerke
his nose did bleede [Ominous 2], so as he coulde not write, and then he
called mee to write in his stead, and the Under-Sherriffe required me so to
doe; which I did till his nose left bleeding, and then he tooke the Booke
again and wrot himselfe. Then I stood by againe about another houre,
and then with the violent presse of the people, the tressolls brake, and the
table fell downe to the ground [Aha /]. There was a cessation of writing
until the table was set up againe. In that interim, Peter Fisher and
Samuel Duncon went to the Conduit-head [Mark /]; and having a table
sett up there, they did write there for the two foresaid Knights: and then,
at the former place [Beside the big Elm, namely, under its creaking boughs,
and brown leaves dropping], when the table was up againe, Mr. Dowe wrot
still for the two Knights, and then [“Then” signifies “meanwhile"] at the
other end of the table was Mr. Robert Clarke writing for Sir Philip. And
1 * Under-Sheriff,” so Duncon calls him ; but the real Under-Sheriff was Mr.
Choppine, to whom this Mr. Farran must have been assistant or temporary
substitute.
* “A.D. 1640. John Choppine, Gent. Under-Sheriff; Tallemach Choppine
* of Coddenham's brother.’—Harleian Mss. No. 99, fol. 7.
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARLIAMENT. 303
then there was no man at that end writing for Sir Nathaniel; which pre-
sently bred this confusion inevitable, viz. when men had with much trouble
pressed to the end of the table (where Mr. Clarke did only take for Sir
Bhilip), and desired to be sworne and entered for both, Mr. Clerke would
sweare and take them onely for Sir Philip; and would send them to the
place where Mr. Fisher was writing for Sir Nathaniel [And I for Sir Philip
still 2 No, I had ceased ; the official nose having done bleeding: see pre
sently], at the foresaid Conduit-head: whereupon men, being unwilling to
endure so much trouble as to presse twice into such great crowdes, began
to murmure and complaine [Very naturally 11, saying they would not en-
dure this, but desired they might be discharged at one place; also Mr.
Fisher came to Mr. Clerke, and demanded the reason Why there was no
one to take for Sir Nathaniel at that end of the table, where the said Clerke
did take names for Sir Philip 2 and Mr. Fisher said that men complained
because they were not despatched for both at once; and said also they
would goe away, and not endure this crowding twice. When I [Having
mow quitted the Conduit-head, and come to the Elm again] saw no clerke
to write for Sir Nathaniel, I desired this inconvenience aforesaid might be
prevented; and seeing a Paper Booke in Mr. Farran his hands, I sayd to
him, “Mr. Farran, you see there wants a clerke at the other end of the
table to write for Sir Nathaniel;” and then Mr. Farran gave me the Paper
Booke in his hands, and sayd to mee, “Write you, for Sir Nathaniel at that
end of the table,” where Mr. Clerke did write for Sir Philip. And then I.
having the Booke, did write for Sir Nathaniel till the evening. And at that
end of the table where [“table where,” not “end where"] Mr. Robert Dowe
did write at one end, and Mr. Clerke and myselfe at the other end, there
were present two or three knightes or gentlemen, all the whole time, of Mr.
North's partie: sometimes Sir Robert Crane, and Mr. — Waldegrave, and
Mr. John Smith,” and Mr. Henry North sen. [This is the Candidate's Uncle,
come over from Laafield, I think, to see fair play.] No man, all that time,
made any observation against mee; and yet they stoode, some of these and
sometimes some others of that side, all the afternoone, and did supravise
all the clerkes. Also, at night, when wee were breaking up, Mr. Clerke
demanded of Mr. Clinch [Clinch of Creting, whom we saw above] if he
could find any fault with us in doing any wrong? To which he answered,
“He could not as yet, if there were no other carriage than there had yet
beene,” or to that effect. Neither was there any, that day, who did find
fault with the clerkes, in my hearing; but sometimes some muttering and
complaining about some particular questions in the oaths, which (as soon
as they came to the High-Sherriffe his intelligence) were rectified and set-
tled.
“And at night, when wee broke up, I gave my Booke that I wrott in,
unto the Under-Sheriffe, Mr. Farran, before I stirred from the table where
I wrott; and then wee came home with the High-Sheriffe to Mrs. Penning's
howse [Did she keep the King's Head 2); and there did the High-Sheriffe
call for all the Bookes from the Under-Sheriffe, and in the presence of Sir
Roger North, and Mr. North his brother, and more other gentlemen, locke
up all the Bookes in a little truncke ; and sett that truncke in his owne lodg-
Smith is undecipherable ; being ‘very frequent’ in Suffolk, as elsewhere.
Of Waldegrave, the Monitor says, “There being no Christian name mentioned,
“it is hard to say what individual is meant. Doubtless he was one of the
“Waldegraves of Smallbridge. Wm. Waldegrave, Esq., son of Sir Wm. .
* Waldegrave, Knight, of Smallbridge in Bures, Suffolk, would be about forty
* years of age about this time:’—let us fancy it was he.
304 MISCELLANIES.
ing-chamber; and gave the key thereof to his Under-Sheriffe, who lodged
not in that howse where the Bookes were.
‘Tuesday, the 20th of October 1640.
“In the morning Mr. High-Sheriffe came into the Corne Hill at Ipswich
and the Knights, to make an end of polling. Whereupon the clerkes who
wrot the day before appeared, and wrot againe as before. But Mr. High-
Sheriffe commanded that wee should all of us make new Bookes to Write
in; for he would not stirr those that were wrot-in the day before; and so
wee did, and wrot in new Bookes. -
“And all that day also while wee wrot, there were divers Supravisors;
but they found no fault with the clerkes in my hearing; and at noone, when
wee brake upp, I gave my Booke againe into Mr. Farran, before I stirred
from the table where I wrot. And in the afternoone, wee came together
againe, and made an end of polling; and towards the end of polling, hefore
wee had done polling at the table where I sat to write, Sir Roger with the
rest of the knights and gentlemen went about the Corne Hill, SWinging
their caps and hats crying, “A North ! A North !” [Questionable]; which
caused me to admire; because I knew the Bookes were not cast up [And
nobody could yet tell who was to winj.
“Then after that, Mr. High-Sheriffe went to Mrs. Penning's, and the
Knights followed him, and the clerkes to summe up the Bookes. But the
might grew on so fast, that they could not be ended that night: then Mr.
High-Sheriffe did againe locke up the Bookes in the same truncke they were
in before, and gave the key to Mr. — North, and sett the truncke into his
chamber, and appointed to meete the next day upon [Means, in it, not on
the roof of it; the figure of Justice stands on the roof.] the Townhall.'
[Samuel Duncon still testifieth.]
“Memorandum, That on Tuesday October 20, in the afternoone, this
present year 1640, the High-Sherriffe of the county of Suffolk, sitting in the
Markett Crosse [Note him /], in Ipswich, where hee kept his County Court,
and had that afternoone taken the poll of divers that came to give their
voices for Mr. Henry North, sonne of Sir Roger North [Grammar fails a
little]. And when it appeared, after some stay, that noe more weere likely
to come, and Mr. Gardener Webb' speaking concerning the said election
averred That the said High-Sherriffe had been damnably base in all his
carriage. Whereupon I, Samuel Duncon, hearing the same, did [As an
enemy of blasphemy, and Constable of this Borough] enforme the said High-
Sheriffe of that outrageous and scandalous speeche; who thereupon asking
the said Webb, Whether hee had spoken the said wordes or not? he an-
Swered, with much impudence and earnestness, That he had said soe, and
would maintain it. And did thereupon in the presence of the said High-
Sherriffe call mee, the said Samuel Duncon, base rascall and rogue [He
shall answer it !] because I had acquainted the said High-Sherriffe with
his said injurious speeches.
* SAMUEL DUNCON.’
1 * Gardiner Webb was the son of William Webb of Ixworth in Suffolk,
‘ attorney-at-law. He became heir, in right of his mother (who was one of the
‘Gardiners of Elmswell), to considerable landed property' (Dryasdust Mss.);
and seems to have been a hot-tempered loose-spoken individual.
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARLIAMENT. 305
No. III.
[Samuel Duncon still testifieth, though without signature.]
• Wednesday the 21st October 1640.
‘The truncke was brought up into the Townhall, and the High-Sher-
riffe and the rest of the knights and gentlemen came up together to make
end of their Bookes: and they passed quietly untill my Booke was pro-
duced; and then Mr. North protested against my Booke, and Sir Roger
came up and exclaimed at mee, and said I was no fitt clerke, neyther
authorised to write. Then was Mr. Farran called, and asked How I came
to write? Which he answered, “He never saw mee before Monday in all
his life, but wanting one to write, and I standing by, he requested mee to
write.” The High-Sherriffe told Sir Roger, “He could not but accept of
my Booke, and would doe so if I had wrot for his own sonne;” and for my.
Selfe, as I then testified, so am I ready to make oath, being lawfully called,
That my Booke was just and right, and that I did not write one name that
was not sworne for Sir Nathaniel; and notwithstanding Sir Roger and
other knights did speake their large pleasures of mee and charged me with
direct and manifest outrage [Maltreating the homest Town-constable: shame-
ful!].
“In conclusion, the High-Sherriffe finished the Bookes, and soe we
brake up that night, and the next day we proclaymed Sir Nathaniel Bar-
nardiston and Sir Philip Parker Knights of the Shire for the ensuing Par-
liament.”
[SAMUEL DUNCON: signature not given.]
“To all these Three Pages I am ready to give testimony; and to the
whole substance thereof.
*EDW. BESTWALL.”
No. IV.
[Samuel Duncon still testifieth.]
* Memorandum, Upon Tuesday morning some women [Puritan women;
zealous beyond discretion /] came to be sworne for the two foresaid Knights;
and Mr. Robert Clerke did suddenly take some of them; but as soone as
Mr. High-Sherriffe had intelligence of it, wee had worde brought to the
table where Mr. Clerke and myselfe wrot, that Mr. Sheriffe would have us
take no women's oaths; and both the Knights desired that those that were
taken might be put out, and that we should take no more; and so we re-
fused the rest of the women after that notice from Mr. High-Sherriffe; and
when Mr. High-Sherriffe cast up the Bookes, he cast out the women out
of the generall summe.'
[SAMUEL DUNCON: signature not given.]
These transactions are of ‘so high a nature, it is probable a
Parliamentary Committee will have to sit upon them: justice be-
* Bestwall is not known to Dryasdust. An impartial onlooker, and pre-
sumably nothing more. The ‘Three Pages he vouches for are all these testi.
jº of Duncon's from beginning to end,-five-and-a-half pages as printed
©re,
WOL. IV. X
306 MISCET,LANIES,
tween the vociferous irrational Sir Roger and the discreet unspot-
ted Sir Simonds will then be done. Duncon backed by Bestwall,
in writing, and by the Under-Sheriffs Farran and Choppin vivá
voce if needful, and indeed by the whole town of Ipswich if need-
ful, may sufficiently evince that Mr. High-Sheriff's carriage in
the business was perfection or nearly so. The accurate Magistrate
meanwhile thinks good to subjoin a succinct Narrative of his own,
which he is ready to sign when required; every word of which
can be proved by the oath of witnesses. No. V. is clearly by
D'Ewes himself; there are even some directions to his clerk about
writing it fair.
NO. W.
A short and true relation of the Carriage of the Election of the Knights
for the Countie of Suffolke at Ipswich, which beganne there upon Mon-
day morning, October 19, this present Year 1640, and ended upon the
Thursday morning then meat ensuing."
“The Under-Sherriffe having had order from the High-Sheriffe of the
same Countie to provide honest and able men to take the Poll, and to looke
to gett ready materialls for the Election, went to Ipswich on Friday night:
and the said High-Sherriffe was purposed to have gone thither the next
day, but that hee understood the small-pox [Nota bene] was exceeding
spread in the said towne. Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston and Sir Philip Par-
ker joined together, and Henry North stood singlie, for the place of Knights
of the Shire.
“The said High-Sherriffe came to Ipswich about eight of the clocke of
the said Monday morning.” To whom Sir Roger North, father of the said
Mr. Henry North, and divers other gentlemen repairing, hee yeilded to
them to have the Poll taken in a feild neare the towne; and soe, after a
little discourse without further stay, went to the Markett Crosse, and caused
the King's Majestie's Writt to bee published; by which meanes the said
Mr. North was carried about a good while before the other Knights [Yes!]
had notice that the said Writt was published. And this the said High-
Sherriffe did about an houre-and-halfe sooner than he was by law com-
pelled to ; that there might be noe just ground of cavill, as if he had de-
laied the business [Sir Simonds is himself known to be a Puritan; already
elected, or about to be elected, for the town of Sudbury. So high stood Sud-
bury then; Sunk now so low !]. -
“After the publication of which, the said High-Sherriffe withdrew him-
selfe to make haste into the said feild [Mr. Hambie's field; with the Con-
duit-head and big Elms in it] to take the Poll. But before hee got thither,
or any place was made readie for the clerkes to write, the said Mr. North
was brought into the feild [Triumphantly in his chair]; and many of the
gentrie as well as others that were of his partie pressed soe upon the place
where the planks and boards were setting upp, as they could not be fastened
! From Harleian Mss. British Museum, collected by Sir S. D'Ewes, No.
158, page 275.
i He lived at Stow Hall (Autobiography of D'Ewes); he must have started
early.
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARLIAMENT. 307
or finished. All this time the other two Knights knew yett nothing that.
the said Poll was begunm in the said feild : Soe as [So that] the said High-
Sherriffe begann Mr. North's poll alone, and admitted a clerke. The said
Sir Roger North proffered to write the names, with the clerke his [The
High-Sheriff's] Under-Sherriffe had before appointed, which hee [The
High-Sheriff] conceived hee was not in law bound unto.
• Having then taken the Poll a while, in the said Sir Roger North's
presence and his said sonne's, the companie did tread upon the said planks
with such extreme violence, as having divers times borne them downe upon
the said High-Sherriffe; and hee having used all meanes of entreatie and
perswasion to desire them to beare off, as did the said, Sir Roger North
also,-the said High-Sherriffe was at the last forced to give over; and soe
gave speedie order, by the advice of the said Sir Roger North and others,
To have three severall tables [“Three :” Duncon notices only two of them;
one under the Elm, one at the Conduit-head, where the Puritan Knights were
polling; Sir Simonds himself superintends the Norths' table : —“three
several tables”] sett upp against trees or other places wheere they might
not bee borne downe by violence. Which being verie speedilie performed,
the said High-Sherriffe went in person and assisted at the said table wheere
Mr. North's poll was taking, leaving his Under-Sherriffe and sworne depu-
ties to attend the other tables, and to administer the oath, where the said
Sir Roger and his sonne did appoint their kindred and friends to overview
all that was done.
* The said High-Sheriffe did there, without eating or drinking, assist
*the said Mr. North, from about nine of the clocke in the morning till it
grew just upon night, notwithstanding it was in the open feild, and a verie
cold and windie day: and did in his owne person take much paines to dis-
patch the said Poll; which had been much better advanced, if such as
came to the same had not treaded with such extreme violence one upon
another. And whereas the said Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston came, about
twelve of the clocke that forenoone, to the said High-Sherriffe, desiring
him that all the companie might dissolve to goe to dinner, and that in
respect of the great winde, the Poll in the afternoone might be taken in
the said towne of Ipswich [A very reasonable motion]: The said High-
Sherriffe, upon the said Mr. North's request to the contrarie, staide in the
said feild till the shutting upp of the said day, as is aforesaid.
‘What was done at the other tables the said High-Sherriffe knew not;
but twice, upon complaint to him made, repaired thither, and certified and
reconciled all matters. And during the same day alsoe the said High-
Sherriffe did desire the Said Sir Roger North to sende for another table to
the place wheere he sate, being willing by all meanes to expedite the said
Poll. And though there were not one man sworne for the other two
Knights at the said Mr. North's table, yet were there divers sworne at one
of the other two tables for the said Mr. North; soe as, by this and the
early beginning of the said Mr. North's poll, he had neare upon Two-hun-
dred voices advantage of the other two Knights, had they come single; but
they having manie hundreds that gave voices for them jointly, did before
night outstrippe his votes by about Fowre-hundred apiece.
“At the said High-Sherriffe's rising from the said Poll on the said
Monday night, hee tooke the Bookes from the said clerkes; and though
by lawe he was tied to call noe partie to assist him in the laying them upp,
yet to take away all possible cause of cavill, and to showe his integritie in
the whole proceedings, hee called the said Sir Roger North to him, and
desired him to accompanie him not only to the places wheere he received
308 - MISCELLANIES.
all the other Bookes or Papers from his said Under-Sherriffe, or the other
clarkes that wrote them, but to his lodging also [Mrs. Penning's] ; wheere
hee bound and sealed upp the said Bookes and Papers, in the presence of
the said Sir Roger North, and the said Under-Sherriffe; then locking
them upp, gave the key to his said Under-Sherriffe to keepe; having first
asked the said Sir Roger, If hee were not a person fitte to be trusted with
it? And soe the said Sir Roger North departed, in a verie friendly and
amicable manner, from the said High-Sherriffe, without so much as
moving the least complaint against any of the said proceedings of that
day.
“But it seemes, after his departure, having that night learned that the
other Knights' polls outstripped his said sonne's by divers hundreds,-he
came the next morning to the said High-Sherriffe's lodging; and beganne,
in violent and passionate termes, to charge him. That hee had dealt un-
justlie and partiallie in taking the Poll the day past [Behold!] ; which at
the present caused the said High-Sherriffe to wonder at that sudden and
unexpected change; in respect the same Sir Roger parted in soe friendlie
a manner from him the night foregoing, and that his indefatigable paines
the day past deserved rather just acknowledgment than such unjust ex-
postulation [Certainly /].
* The said High-Sherriffe therefore, having received the said key from
his said Under-Sherriffe, in the presence of the said Sir Roger North, de-
parted to the finishing of the said Poll. And whereas the other two
Knights had but each of them one table allowed at which two clerkes only
wrote; the said High-Sherriffe allowed the said Mr. North two tables and
four clerkes: and at noone when the said Court was adjourned to two of
the clocke of the same afternoone, the said High-Sherriffe having taken
all the Bookes and Papers touching the same Poll from his Under-Sher-
riffe, or the clerkes which wrot them, desired the said Mr. North himselfe
to accompanie him to his said lodging; which he did, and sawe them
sealed and locked upp, and then had himselfe the key along with him.
“But all these testimonies of the said High-Sherriffe's impartialitie,
and integritie in his proceedings, did in noe way mitigate the passion and
indignation of the said Sir Roger North and some others, who now beganne
to give the cause upp as conclamated and lost; and therefore, though the
said High-Sherriffe afterwardes in his numbering the votes of the said Poll
did proceed with it in publike view, which hee might have done privately
with his own clerkes, yet all the time after hee was often interrupted by
most unjust and outrageous accusations and criminations; and by that
meanes was almost as long, within an houre or two, in numbering the
names of the said Poll, as hee was in taking the Poll itselfe. And in all
differences that emergently fell out in numbering the said names, wheere
there was but any equalitie of doubt, the said High-Sherriffe prevailed
with the other two Knights to let the advantage rest on the said Mr.
North's side.
“And though the said Sir Roger North came, on the said Tuesday in
the afternoone, October 20th, into the Countie Court whilst the said High-
Sherriff sate taking the Poll for his said sonne, and there used most out-
rageous and violent speeches against the said High-Sherriffe [Hear Duncon
too], and told him “Hee would make it good with his bloud;” yet the said
High-Sherriffe, seeing him accompanied with many young gentlemen and
others, all or most of them armed with their swords and their rapiers
* Conclamatum est;-summoned nine times, and making no answer, is now
to be held for dead.
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARLIAMENT. 309
[Questionable!], and fearing if he had made use of his just power to
punish such an affront, much bloudshedd would have ensued, hee rather
passed it over with an invincible patience; and only stoode upp, and de-
sired silence to cleare himselfe from these unjust assertions and crimina-
tions which had been laid upon him; and resolved to expect redresse of
his enemies from the High Court of Parliament [Far the better plan, Mr.
High-Sheriff 1–which, among other good effects, has yielded us these pre-
8ent Documents withal].
* Yet the said Sir Roger, not satisfied herewith, did, a little after, with
the said companie of young gentlemen, and others that followed him,
armed as aforesaid, or the greater part of them, go about the Corne Hill
in Ipswich, where the Crosse stands, and cried, “A North ! a North !” call-
ing the saylers Water-dogges [Puritan Sailors;–mark it; had voted for
the Gospel Candidates: “Water-dogs"], and otherwise provoking them:
one also of the companie drewe out his sword [Lo, there /], and brandished
it about, nor did they give over till one of the Constables of Ipswich [San
Duncon; we saw him doing it], being a sworne officer, charged them. In
the King's name to desist. The other two Knights, then sitting at the
Poll, were fain at the instant to withdraw themselves in at the next win-
dowe of the house wheere they stoode; having first besought the people
and Saylers to bee quiet, and not to answer violence with violence. For it
is too apparent what was sought for in that dangerous action; and that if
the said High-Sherriffe had, at that present, made use of his power to win-
dicate his owne affronts and sufferings, much bloudshedde might have
ensued. Nor did the said High-Sherriffe suffer only from the violent
language of the said Sir Roger North and some others of qualitie, but
from two of the Webbes alsoe, whose Christian names were Roger and
Gardiner [The intemperate Webbes of Ixworth], and such like persons of
inferiour rank. The said High-Sherriffe having sate out all Wednesday
October 21, from morning till night, in the West Hall or Court House in
Ipswich aforesaid, without dining, did at last, notwithstanding the violent
interruptions of the said Sir Roger North and others, finish the numbring
of the said votes that day; and found that the said Sir Nathaniel Barnar-
diston had 2140 voices, and Sir Philip Parker 2240 at the least,-besides
the voices of all such persons as had been admitted without the said High-
Sherriffe's knowledge, and were by him, upon numbring the same, dis-
allowed and cast out. And the said Mr. Henry North had 1422.
“The next morning, October 22, the said High-Sherriffe made open
publication of the said votes; and pronounced the said Sir Nathaniel Bar-
nardiston and Sir Philip Parker the due elected Knights for the said
Countie of Suffolke. And then caused the indentures witnessing the same
election to be there ensealed and loyallie [Lawfully] executed.
‘'Tis true that, by the ignorance of some of the clerkes at the other
tables, the oaths of some single women [We saw it with Duncon] that
were freeholders were taken, without the knowledge of the said High-
Sherriffe; who, as soon as he had notice thereof, instantlie sent to forbidd
the same, conceiving it a matter verie unworthy of anie gentleman, and
most dishonourable in such an election, to make use of their voices,
although they might in law have been allowed; nor did the said High-
Sherriffe allow of the said votes upon his numbring the said Poll, but with
the allowance and consent of the said two Knights themselves discount
them and cast them out.
“Now, though all the frivolous cavills, exceptions and protestations
310 - MISCELLANIES.
which were made against the foresaid Election by the said Sir Roger North
or others did only concerne the Poll which was taken on the said Monday
October 19; and are sufficiently answered with the verie preceding bare
Narration of the true carriage thereof; and the rather, because himselfe
accompanying the said High-Sheriffe the same evening when he received
all the said Bookes and Papers from his said Under-Sherriffe, or such per-
Sons who had written them, did except against noe person, nor moe booke
or paper, but consented to the sealing and locking them upp as Acts by
which the matter in question was to be decided: Yet to satisfy all the
World, such exceptions shall be heare set down, and clearly elevated or
wiped away, which on the Tuesday and Wednesday following were pressed
at Ipswich upon the said High-Sherriffe, with soe much outrageous passion
as he could be scarce permitted to make answer to the same, by reason of
the vociferation and clamours of the other partie.
“It was objected, That the said High-Sherriffe made delaies on pur-
pose to hinder the said Mr. North. This is so frivolous as 'tis not worth
the answering; for the hindrance must have been equallie prejudiciale to
the other two Knights as well as to him. Nay, on the contrarie, if any had
Wrong, they had; for the said High-Sherriffe soe hastened both the read-
ing of the Writt, and goeing to the Poll as hee could not in time give the
other two Knights notice of it. Soe as if the said Mr. North's companie
had not by their overpressing violence throwne downe the boards and
planks, wheere the said High-Sherriffe begann his the said Mr. North's
poll alone, hee had gained neare upon an houre's advantage of the other
two.
‘Another objection, That the said High-Sherriffe refused such clerkes
as the said Sir Roger North offered him; telling him hee was provided.
This is a shamefull objection: as if the adverse partie were to provide men
to take the poll. In this matter the said High-Sherriffe committed all to
the trust and care of his Under-Sherriffe, who assured him hee had pro-
vided able and sulficient writers; yet did the said High-Sherriffe admitt a
Clarke, at the said Mr. North's poll, to write with the clerke his said Under-
Sherriffe had provided, upon the motion of the said Sir Roger North.
“A third objection, That the said Mr. North lost many voices that were
forced to goe out of towne the same Monday, because they could not be
sworne. And soe doubtless did the other two likewise. And this was an
invincible or remediless mischief on all sides. And 'tis evident the ex-
treame pressing of the said Mr. North's votes hindred some hundreds from
being dispatched. Besides, the said High-Sherriffe, at his entreatie, for-
bore his dinner [The high-spirited immaculate man], to sitt it out with him
in the winde and cold till night; which deserved acknowledgement, and
not rage and furie. Besides, he made the said Sir Roger North once or
twice to send for another table to the same place; which courtesie the said
High-Sherriffe afforded the said Mr. North the next morning, more than
was allowed the other two Knights. And had the said Mr. North lost the
place by one or two hundred voices, there might indeed be some colour
that hee had miscarried because the Poll could not be finished on the said
Monday night; which notwithstanding that it had been soe, yet the said
High-Sherriffe was noe ways the cause thereof. But it is noe ways pro-
bable that the said Mr. North should be so ill-beloved or lightlie esteemed
by such as appeared for him, that Seven-hundred persons would all depart
and desert his cause, rather than abide and stay one night in Ipswich to
assist him with their votes. For by so many at the least did either of the
other two Knights carrie it from him.
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARLIAMENT. 311.
“Lastly, for conclusion of the whole. There is not a word or sillible
sett down here, which is not notoriously known to manie, or which the said
High-Sherriffe himself will not make good by his corporall oath being
loyallie thereunto called, as also by the Bookes and Papers taken at the
said Poll. Soe as never was innocency oppressed more by violence and
fury; nor did his royall Majestie's Authoritie ever suffer more in the
person of his Minister, than by the outrageous affronts offered unto, and
unjust criminations heaped upon, the said High-Sherriffe at the said
Election.’
Such is the account High-Sheriff D'Ewes has to give of himself,
concerning his carriage in the Election of Knights of the Shire for
Suffolk on this memorable occasion. He has written it down in an
exact manner, to be ready for the Parliament, or for any and all
persons interested; his clerks can now make copies of it as many
as wanted. In the same Volume, No. 158 of the Harley Collection,
there is another copy of this ‘short and true relation,’ with slight
changes, principally in the punctuation; doubtless the immaculate
Magistrate saw good to revise his Narrative more than once, and
bring it still nearer perfection: he adds always this direction for
the amanuenses: “They are desired who take a coppie of this to
compare it with the originall after they have transcribed it,”—to
be sure that they are exact. The original, which at any rate, in
I)'Ewes's hand, few persons could have read, is happily lost.
No notice in the Commons Journals, or elsewhere, indicates at
all whether this case ever came before the Election Committee of
the Long Parliament. But if it did, as is probable enough, we put
it to the commonest sense of mankind, whether on Sir Roger
North's side it could have a leg to stand on 1 No Election Com-
mittee can have difficulty here. Accordingly our Puritan Knights
Sir Philip Parker and Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston sat indisputable
as County Members for Suffolk, Mr. Henry North consoling him-
self as he could. Sir Simonds the High-Sheriff had another case
before the Parliament; this namely, that he being High-Sheriff
had returned himself for Sudbury as duly elected there, which was
thought informal by some; but in this too he prospered, and sat
for that Borough. The intemperate Sir Roger, as we said, was
admitted Member for Eye: but in the second year, mingling with
* Commission of Array' and other Royalist concerns, to small pur-
pose as is likely, he, like many others, was “disabled,'—cast forth,
to Oxford, to “malignancy, disaster, and a fate that has not been
inquired into.
Sir Simonds sat spotless for Sudbury; made occasional fan-
tastic Speeches; and what is far more important for us, took exact
Notes. Several of his Speeches he has preserved in writing; one,
probably the most fantastic and pedantic of all, he sent forth in
312 MISCELLANIES,
print: it relates to a dispute for seniority that had arisen between
Oxford University and Cambridge; proves by unheard-of argu-
ments and erudition, obsolete now to all mortals, that Cambridge,
which was his own University, is by far the older,-older than
Alfred himself, old as the very hills in a manner. Sir Simonds
had the happiness to “shake hands with Mr. Prynne,” when he
came to the Parliament Committee on his deliverance from prison,
and to congratulate Mr. Prynne on the changed aspects that then
were. He wrote frequent letters to ‘Abraham Wheloc’ and many
others. Far better, he almost daily dictated to his secretary, or
jotted-down for him on scraps of paper, Notes of the Proceedings
of the Long Parliament; which Notes still exist, safe in the Bri-
tish Museum ; unknown seemingly to all the learned. He was a
thin highflown character, of eminent perfection and exactitude,
little fit for any solid business in this world, yet by no means with-
out his uses there.
This one use, had there been no other, That he took Notes of
the Long Parliament! Probably there is much light waiting us in
these Notes of his, were they once disimprisoned into general legi-
bility. They extend, in various forms, in various degrees of com-
pleteness, to the year 1645; but in that year, after the victory of
Naseby, the questionable course things were taking gave offence
to our Presbyterian Grandison; he sat mostly silent, with many
thoughts, and forbore jotting any farther. Two of his written
Speeches relate to the confused negotiations with King Charles in
the Isle of Wight; and are strong in the Royalist-Presbyterian
direction. Colonel Pride, in the end, purged him out altogether,
on the memorable 6th of December 1648; sent him, with four or
five score others, “over to the Tavern called Hell, kept by Mr.
Duke, near Palaceyard,'—in the most unheard-of manner! For on
questioning Mr. Hugh Peters, who had come across to them, By
what law? By what shadow or vestige of any law, common or sta-
tutory, human or divine, is this unheard-of thing done?—the can-
did Mr. Peters, a man of good insight and considerable humour of
character, answered these much-injured honourable gentlemen,
“By the law of Necessity; truly by the power of the sword " And
they remained in a nearly rabid state; evidently purged out, with-
out reason and without remedy; and had to retire to their respec-
tive countries, and there rhyme the matter for themselves as they
could. Our poor Knight, Sir Simonds, soon after died; leaving an
unspotted pedant character, and innumerable Manuscripts behind
him. Besides his History of the Parliaments of Queen Elizabeth, a
laborious compilation, which has since been printed, long ago, and
still enjoys a good reputation of its sort, there are, as we count,
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARLIAMENT. 313
some Ninety and odd Volumes of his Papers still extant in the
British Museum ; very worthless some of them, very curious
others;–among which latter, certain portions of his Autobiography,
already known in print," are well worth reading; and these his
Notes of the Long Parliament are perhaps, to us English, the most
interesting of all the Manuscripts that exist there. Pury's Notes
of the Long Parliament” appear to be irretrievably lost; Warney's,
which also have never yet been made accessible,” extend over
only a short early period of the business: it is on these Notes of
D'Ewes's, principally, that some chance of understanding the pro-
cedure and real character of the Long Parliament appears still to
depend for us. At present, after shiploads of historical printing,
it is and remains mere darkness visible; if in these Notes by an
accurate eye-witness there be no chance of light, then is light any-
where hopeless, and this remarkablest Parliament that ever sat will
continue an enigma forever. In such circumstances, we call these
Notes the most interesting of all Manuscripts. To an English soul
who would understand what was really memorable and godlike
in the History of his Country, distinguishing the same from what
was at bottom unmemorable and devil-like ; who would bear in
everlasting remembrance the doings of our noble heroic men, and
sink into everlasting oblivion the doings of our loud ignoble quacks
and sham-heroes, what other record can be so precious? If Eng-
lish History have nothing to afford us concerning the Puritan Par-
liament but vague incoherences, inconceivabilities and darkness
visible,_English History in this Editor's opinion, must be in a
poor way !
It has often been a question, Why none of the Dryasdust Pub-
lishing Societies, the Camden or some other, has gone into these
* Bibliotheca Topographica, No. 6.
* ‘Mr. Robinson asked me this morning,” Monday, 12 Jan. 1656-7, ‘before
* the Speaker came, If I took Notes at Scot's Committee' I said, Yea. He told
‘me He had much ado to forbear moving against my taking Notes, for it was
‘ expressly against the Orders of the House. I told him. How Mr. Davy took
* Notes all the Long Parliament, and that Sir Symons D'Ewes wrote great
‘volumes’ of the like.—Burton's Diary (London, 1828), i. 341.
Of Sir Simonds's ‘great volumes' we are here speaking : but who the ‘Mr.
Davy' is? No person of the name of Davy sat in the Long Parliament at all;
or could by possibility have taken Notes . After multifarious examination, and
bootless trial of various names more or less resembling Davy, a sight of the
original MS. of the thing called Burton's Diary was procured ; and the name
‘Dayy’ then straightway turned out to be Pury. Pury, or Purry, perhaps now
written Perry, Alderman of Gloucester, and once well known as Member for
that City. . But of him or of his Notes, on repeated application there, no trace
could now be found. If, as is possible, they still exist, in the buried state, in
those regions,—to resuscitate and print them were very meritorious.
* Edited now (London, 1845) by Mr. Bruce.
314 MISCEILANIES.
D'Ewes's Mss. in an efficient spirit, and fished-up somewhat of
them? Surely it is the office of such Publishing Societies. Now
when Booksellers are falling irrecoverably into the hand-to-mouth
system, unable to publish any thing that will not repay them on
the morrow morning; and in Printed Literature, as elsewhere,
matters seem hastening pretty fast towards strange consumma-
tions: who else but the Printing Societies is to do it? They should
lay aside vain Twaddle and Dilettantism, and address themselves
to their function by real Labour and Insight, as above hinted,—of
which, alas, there is at present little hopeſ
Unhappily the Publishing Societies, generally speaking, are
hitherto “Dryasdust' ones; almost a fresh nuisance rather than
otherwise. They rarely spend labour on a business, rarely insight;
they consider that sham-labour, and a twilight of ignorance and
buzzard stupidity, backed by prurient desire for distinction, with
the subscription of a guinea a year, will do the turn. It is a fatal
mistakeſ Accordingly the Books they print, intending them ap-
parently to be read by some class of human creatures, are wonder-
ful. Alas, they have not the slightest talent for knowing, first of
all, what not to print; what, as a thing dead, and incapable of ever
interesting or profiting a human creature more, ought not to be
printed again, to steal away the valuable cash, and the invaluable
time and patience of any man again! It is too bad. How sorrow-
ful to see a mass of printed Publishings and Republishings, all in
clear white paper, bound in cloth and gold lettered; concerning
which you have to acknowledge that there should another artist be
appointed to go in the rear of them, to fork them swiftly into the
oven, and save all men's resources from one kind of waste at least.
Mr. Chadwick proposes that sweepers shall go in the rear of all
horses in London, and instantly sweep-up their offal, before it be
trampled abroad over the pavement to general offence. Yes; but
what sweeper shall follow the Dryasdust Printing Societies, the
Authors, Publishers, and other Prurient-Stupids of this intellectual
Metropolis, who are rising to a great height at present! Horse-
offal, say Chadwick and the Philanthropists very justly, if not at
once swept-up, is trampled abroad over the pavements, into the
sewers, into the atmosphere, into the very lungs and hearts of the
citizens: Good Heavens, and to think of Author-offal, and how it is
trampled into the very souls of men; and how the rains and the
trunkmakers do not get it abolished for years on years, in some
instances !
.315
TWO-HUNDRED-AND-FIFTY YEARS AGO :
A FRAGMENT ABOUT DUELs."
[1850.]
DUELLING.
DUELLING, in Queen Elizabeth's reign, was very prevalent; nor has
it abated in King James's. It is one of the sincerities of Human
Life, which bursts-through the thickest-quilted formulas; and in
Norse-Pagan, in Christian, New-Christian, and all manner of ages,
will, one way or the other, contrive to show itself.
A background of wrath, which can be stirred-up to the mur-
derous infernal pitch, does lie in every man, in every creature;
this is a fact which cannot be contradicted ;-which indeed is but
another phasis of the more general fact, that every one of us is a
Self, that every one of us calls himself I. How can you be a Self,
and not have tendencies to self-defence This background of
wrath, which surely ought to blaze-out as seldom as possible,
and then as nobly as possible, may be defined as no other than
the general radical fire, in its least-elaborated shape, whereof Life
itself is composed. Its least-elaborated shape, this flash of ac-
cursed murderous rage;—as the glance of mother's-love, and all
intermediate warmths and energies and genialities, are the same
element better elaborated. Certainly the elaboration is an immense
matter-indeed, is the whole matter | But the figure, moreover,
under which your infernal element itself shall make its appearance,
nobly or else ignobly, is very significant. From Indian Tomahawks,
from Irish Shillelahs, from Arkansas Bowie-knives, up to a delibe-
rate Norse Holmgang, to any civilised Wager of Battle, the distance
is great.
Certain small fractions of events in this kind, which give us a
direct glance into Human Existence in those days, are perhaps, in
the dim scarcity of all events that are not dead and torpid, worth
snatching from the general leaden haze of my erudite friend, and
saving from bottomless Nox for a while.
* Found recently in Leigh Hunt's Journal, Nos. 1, 3, 6 (Saturday 7th De-
cember 1850, et seqq.). Said there to be ‘from a Waste-paper Bag' of mine.
Apparently some fraction of a certain History (Failure of a History) of James I.,
of which I have indistinct recollections.—(Wote of 1857.)
316 MISCELLANIES.
No. I.
HOLLES OF HAUGHTON,
John Holles, Esquire, or to speak properly, Sir John Holles, of
Haughton, in Notts; the same Sir John whom we saw lately made
Comptroller of the Prince's Household;—an indignant man, not
without some relation to us here : John Holles indignantly called
it “political simony' this selling of honours; which indeed it was:
but what then? It was doable, it was done for others; it was de-
sirable to John also, who possessed the requisite cash. He was
come of London citizens, had got broad lands and manors, Haugh-
ton, Erby, and others; had wealth in abundance,—‘his father used
to keep a troop of players:’ he now, in this epoch, for a considera-
tion of 10,000l., gets himself made Earl of Clare. We invite our
readers to look back some two-score years upon his history, and
notice slightly the following circumstances there.
John Holles, Esquire, of Haughton, in Notts, a youth of fortune,
spirit and accomplishment, who had already seen service under the
Veres, the Frobishers, by land and sea, did in 1591, in his twenty-
sixth year, marry his fair neighbour, Anne Stanhope;—Mistress
Anne Stanhope, daughter of Sir Thomas Stanhope, in those parts,
from whom innumerable Chesterfields, Harringtons and other
Stanhopes extant to this very day descend. This fair Anne Stan-
hope, beautiful in her fardingales and antiquarian headgear, had
been the lady of John Holles's heart in those old times; and he
married her, thinking it no harm. But the Shrewsburys, of Work-
sop, took offence at it. In his father's time, who kept the troop of
players and did other things, John Holles had been bespoken for
a daughter of the Shrewsburys; and now here has he gone-over
to the Stanhopes, enemies of the house of Shrewsbury. Ill blood
in consequence ; ferment of high humours; a Montague-and-Ca-
pulet business; the very retainers, on both sides, biting thumbs
at one another.
Pudsey, a retainer on the Shrewsbury Worksop side, bit his
thumb at Orme, a retainer on the Holles Haughton side; was
called-out with drawn rapier; was slain on the spot, like fiery Ty-
balt, and never bit his thumb more. Orme, poor man, was tried
for murder; but of course the Holleses and the Stanhopes could
not let him be hanged; they made interest, they feed law-counsel,
—they smuggled him away to Ireland, and he could not be hanged.
Whereupon Gervase Markham, a passably loose-tongued, loose-
living gentleman, sworn squire-of-dames to the Dowager of Shrews-
bury, took upon himself to say publicly, “That John Holles was
TWO-HUNDRED-AND-FIFTY YEARS AGO. 317
himself privy to Pudsey's murder; that John Holles himself, if
justice were done !” And thereupon John Holles, at Haugh-
ton, in Notts, special date not given, presumable date 1594 or '95,
indited this emphatic Note, already known to some readers:
* For Gervase Markham.
“Whereas you have said that I was guilty of that villany of
‘ Orme in the death of Pudsey, I affirm that you lie, and lie like a
‘villain; which I shall be ready to make good upon yourself, or
‘ upon any gentleman my equal living.—John Hol.I.E.S.'
Gervase Markham, called upon in this emphatic way, answered,
“Yes, he would fight; certainly ;-and it should be in Worksop
Park, on such a day as would suit Holles best.” Worksop Park;
locked Park of the Shrewsburys Holles, being in his sound wits,
cannot consent to fight there; and Markham and the world silently
insinuate, “Are you subject to niceties in your fighting, then 2
Readier, after all, with your tongue than with your rapier?” These
new intolerabilities John Holles had to pocket as he could, to keep
close in the scabbard, beside his rapier, till perhaps a day would
COIſle.
Time went on : John Holles had a son; then, in 1597, a second
son, Denzil by name. Denzil Holles, Oliver Cromwell's Denzil:
yes, reader, this is he ; come into the world not without omens !
For at his christening, Lady Stanhope, glad matron, came as grand-
mother and godmother; and Holles, like a dutiful son-in-law, es-
corted her homewards through the Forest again. Forest of merry
Sherwood, where Robin Hood and others used to inhabit ; that
way lies their road. And now, riding so toward Shelton House,
through the glades of Sherwood, whom should they chance to
meet but Gervase Markham also ambling along, with some few in
his company | Here, then, had the hour arrived.
With slight salutation and time of day, the two parties passed
on: but Holles, with convenient celerity, took leave of his mother-
in-law: “Adieu, noble Madam, it is all straight road now !” Wav-
ing a fond adieu, Holles gallops back through Sherwood glades;
overtakes Markham; with brief emphasis, bids him dismount, and
stand upon his guard. And so the rapiers are flashing and jing-
ling in the Forest of Sherwood; and two men are flourishing and
fencing, their intents deadly and not charitable. “Markham,” cried
Holles, “guard yourself better, or I shall spoil you presently;" for
Markham, thrown into a flurry, fences ill; in fact, rather capers
and flourishes than fences; his antagonist standing steady in his
place the while, supple as an eel, alert as a serpent, and with a
*
318 MISOELLANIES,
sting in him too. See, in few passes, our alert Holles has ended the
Capering of Markham; has pierced and spitted him through the
lower abdominal regions, in very important quarters of the body,
‘coming out at the small of the back!' That, apparently, will do for
Markham ; loose-tongued, loose-living Gervase Markham lies low,
having got enough. Visible to us there, in the glades of ancient
Sherwood, in the depths of long-vanished years O Dryasdust,
was there not a Human Existence going-on there too; of hues
other than the leaden-hazy? The fruit-trees looked all leafy, blos-
somy, my erudite friend, and the Life-tree Igdrasil which fills this
Universe; and they had not yet rotted to brown peat! Torpid
events shall be simply damnable, and continually claim oblivion
from all souls; but the smallest fractions of events not torpid
shall be welcome. John Holles, “with his man, Acton,’ leaving
Markham in this sated condition, ride home to Haughton with
questionable thoughts.
Nevertheless Markham did not die. He was carried home to
Worksop, pale, hopeless; pierced in important quarters of the
body: and the Earl of Shrewsbury ‘gathered a hundred retainers
to apprehend Holles;’ and contrariwise the Earl of Sheffield came
to Haughton with fifty retainers to protect Holles;–and in the
mean while Markham began to show symptoms of recovering, and
the retainers dispersed themselves again. The doctor declared
that Markham would live ; but that, — but that Here, we will
suppose, the Doctor tragi-comically shook his head, pleading the
imperfections of language 1 Markham did live long after ; break-
ing several of the commandments, but keeping one of them it is
charitably believed. For the rest, having ‘vowed never to eat
supper nor to take the sacrament' till he was revenged on Holles,
he did not enjoy either of those consolations in this world."
Such doings went forward in Sherwood Forest and in our Eng-
lish Life-arena elsewhere; the trees being as yet all green and
leafy.
No. II.
CROY DON RACES.
Sardanapalus Hay, and other Scotch favourites of King James,
have transiently gleamed athwart us; their number is in excess,
not in defect. These hungry magnificent individuals, of whom
Sardanapalus Hay is one, and Supreme Car another, are an eye-
1 The above facts are given in Gervase Holles's Manuscript Memoirs of the
Family of Holles (in Biographia Britannica, Š Holles); a Manuscript which
some of our Dryasdust Societies ought to print,
TWO-HUNDRED-ANTD-FIFTY YEAHS AGO. 319,
sorrow to English subjects; and sour looks, bitter gibes, followed
by duels within and without the verge, keep his Majesty's pacifi-
catory hand in use. How many duels has he soldered-up, with
difficulty: for the English are of a grim humour when soured; and
the Scotch too are fierce and proud; and it is a truculent swash-
buckler age, ready with its stroke, in whatever else it may be
wanting.
Scotch Maxwell, James Maxwell, Usher of the Black or some
kind of Rod, did he not, in his insolent sardonic way, of which he
is capable, take a certain young tastefully dizened English gentle-
man by the bandstring, may perhaps by the earring and its ap-
pendage, by some black ribbon in or about the ear; and so, by the
ribbon, lead him out from the Royal Presence,—as if he had been
a nondescript in Natural History; some tame rabbit, of unusual
size and aspect, with ribbon in its ear! Such touches of sar-
donic humour please me little. The Four Inns of Court were
in deadly emotion; and fashionable Young England in general
demanded satisfaction, with a growl that was tremendous enough.
Sardonic Maxwell had to apologise in the completest manner-
and be more wary in future how he led-out fashionable young
gentlemen.
“Beati pacifici, Happy are the peacemakers,” said his Majesty
always. Good Majesty; shining examples of justice too he is pre-
pared to afford; and has a snarl in him which can occasionally
bite. Of Crichton Lord Sanquhar, from the pleasant valley of
Nith, how the Fencing-master accidentally pricked an eye out of
him, and he forgave it; how, much wrought-upon afterwards, he
was at last induced to have the Fencing-master assassinated;—
and to have himself executed in Palace Yard in consequence, and
his two assassin servants hanged in Fleet Street; rough Border
serving-men of all work, too unregardful of the gallows: of this
unadmirable Crichton the whole world heard, not without pity,
and can still hear."
This of Croydon Races, too, if we read old Osborne with reflec-
tion, will become significant of many things. How the races were
going on, a new delightful invention of that age; and Croydon
Heath was populous with multitudes come to see; and between
James Ramsay of the Dalhousie Ramsays, and Philip Herbert of
the Montgomery Herberts, there rose sudden strife; sharp pass-
ages of wit, ending in a sharp stroke of Ramsay's switch over the
crown and face of my Lord Montgomery, the great Earl of Pem-
broke's brother, and himself capable to be Earl Pembroke It is
a fact of the most astonishing description: undeniable, though
1 State Trials.
320 MISCELLANIES.
the exact date and circumstances will now never be discovered in
this world. It is all vague as cloud, in old Osborne ; lies off or on,
within sight of Prince Henry's Pageant; exact date of it never to
be known. Yet is it well recognisable as distant ill-defined land,
and no cloud; not dream but astonishing fact. Can the reader
sufficiently admire at it? The honourable Philip Herbert, of the
best blood of England, here is he switched over the crown by an
accursed Scotch Ramsay! We hear the swift-stinging descent of
the ignominious horse-switch; we see the swift-blazing counten-
ances of gods and men.
Instantaneous shriek, as was inevitable, rises near and far :
The Scotch insolence, Scotch pride and hunger, Scotch damna-
bility And ‘a cripple man, with only the use of three fingers,'
crooked of shape, hot of temper, rode about the field with drawn
dagger; urging in a shrill manner, that we should prick every
Scotch lown of them home to their own beggarly country again,
or to the Devil, off Croydon Heath, at least. The name of this
shrill individual, with dagger grasped between two fingers and a
thumb, was ‘John Pinchback' or Pinchbeck; and appears here in
History, with something like golden lustre, for one moment and
no more. “Let us breakfast on them at Croydon,” cries Pinch-
beck, in a shrill, inspired manner; “and sup on them at London 1"
The hour was really ominous. But Philip Herbert, beautiful
young man, himself of infirm temper and given to strokes, stood
firmly dissuasive : he is in the King's service, how shall he answer
it; he was himself to blame withal. And young Edward Sackville
is, with his young friend Bruce of Kinloss, firmly dissuasive; it
is the Bruce whom we saw at the chapel-door, stepping-out a new-
made knight, now here with Sackville; dear friends these, not
always to be friends ! But for the present they are firmly dissua-
sive; all considerate persons are dissuasive. Pinchbeck's dagger
brandishes itself in vain.
Sits the wind so, O Pinchbeck? Sidney's sister, Pembroke's
mother: this is her son, and he stands a switch?—Yes, my shrill
crookbacked friend, to avoid huge riot and calamity, he does so:
and I see a massive nobleness in the man, which thou, egregious
cock of bantam, wilt never in this world comprehend, but only
crow over in thy shrill way. Ramsay and the Scots, and all per-
sons, rode home unharmed that night ; and my shrill friend
gradually composed himself again. Philip Herbert may expect
knighthoods, lordhoods, court-promotions: neither did his heroic
mother ‘tear her hair,' I think, to any great extent, — except in
the imaginations of Osborne, Pinchbeck and such like.
This was the scene of Croydon Races; a fact, and significant of
TWO-HUNDRED-AND-FIFTY YEARS AGO. 321
many facts, that hangs-out for us like a cloud-island, and is not
cloud." tº
No. III.
SIR THOMAS DUTTON AND SIR HATTON CHEEK.
His Majesty, as I perceive in spite of calumnies, was not a “cow-
ard ; see how he behaved in the Gowrie Conspiracy and else-
where. But he knew the value, to all persons, and to all interests
of persons, of a whole skin; how unthrifty everywhere is any solu-
tion of continuity, if it can be avoided ! He struggled to preside
pacifically over an age of some ferocity much given to wrangling.
Peace here, if possible; skins were not made for mere slitting and
slashing ! You that are for war, cannot you go abroad, and fight
the Papist Spaniards? Over in the Netherlands there is always
fighting enough. You that are of ruffling humour, gather your
truculent ruffians together; make yourselves colonels over them ;
go to the Netherlands, and fight your bellyful
Which accordingly many do, earning deathless war-laurels for
the moment; and have done, and will continue doing, in those
generations. Our gallant Veres, Earl of Oxford and the others, it
has long been their way: gallant Cecil, to be called Earl of Wim-
bledon; gallant Sir John Burroughs, gallant Sir Hatton Cheek, -
it is still their way. Deathless military renowns are gathered
there in this manner; deathless for the moment. Did not Ben
Jonson, in his young hard days, bear arms very manfully as a pri-
vate soldado there ? Ben, who now writes learned plays and court-
masks as Poet Laureate, served manfully with pike and sword there
for his groat a day with rations. And once when a Spanish soldier
came strutting forward between the lines, flourishing his weapon,
and defying all persons in general,—Ben stept forth, as I hear;”
fenced that braggart Spaniard, since no other would do it; and
ended by soon slitting him in two, and so silencing him Ben's
war-tuck, to judge by the flourish of his pen, must have had a very
dangerous stroke in it.
‘Swashbuckler age,’ we said; but the expression was incorrect,
except as a figure. Bucklers went out, fifty years ago, ‘about the
twentieth of Queen Elizabeth;' men do not now swash with them,
or fight in that way. Iron armour has mostly gone out, except in
* Francis Osborne's Traditional Memorials on the Reign of James the First
(Reprinted in Sir Walter Scott's History of the Court of James I., Edinburgh,
1811), pp. 220-227. * Life of Ben Jonson.
TVOL. IV. Y
322 MISCELLANIES.
mere pictures of soldiers: King James said, It was an excellent
invention; you could get no harm in it, and neither could you do
any. Bucklers, either for horse or foot, are quite gone. Yet old
Mr. Stowe, good chronicler, can recollect when every gentleman
had his buckler: and at length every serving-man and City dandy.
Smithfield,—still a waste field, full of puddles in wet weather,
was in those days full of buckler-duels, every sunday and holiday
in the dry season; and was called Ruffian's Rig, or some such
Ila.Iſle.
A man, in those days, bought his buckler, of gilt leather and
wood, at the haberdasher's; ‘hung it over his back, by a strap
fastened to the pommel of his sword in front.' Elegant men
showed what taste, or sense of poetic beauty, was in them, by the
fashion of their buckler. With Spanish beaver, with starched ruff,
and elegant Spanish cloak, with elegant buckler hanging at his
back, a man, if his moustachios and boots were in good order,
stepped forth with some satisfaction. Full of strange oaths, and
bearded like the pard; a decidedly truculent-looking figure. Jostle
him in the street thoroughfares, accidentally splash his boots as
you pass, by Heaven, the buckler gets upon his arm, the sword
flashes in his fist, with oaths enough ; and you too being ready,
there is a noise! Clink, clank, death and fury; all persons gather-
ing round, and new quarrels springing from this one ! And Dog-
berry comes up with the town-guard 2 And the shopkeepers
hastily close their shops ? Nay, it is hardly necessary, says Mr.
Howe: these buckler-fights amount only to noise, for most part;
the jingle of iron against tin and painted leather. Ruffling swash-
ers strutting along, with big oaths and whiskers, delight to pick a
quarrel; but the rule is, you do not thrust, you do not strike below
the waist; and it was oftenest a dry duel—mere noise, as of work-
ing tinsmiths, with profane swearing ! Empty vapouring bully-
rooks and braggarts, they encumber the thoroughfares mainly.
Dogberry and Verges ought to apprehend them. I have seen, in
Smithfield on a dry holiday, ‘thirty of them on a side,' fighting
and hammering as if for life; and was not at the pains' to look at
them, the blockheads; their noise as the mere beating of old ket-
tles to me !
The truth is, serving-men themselves, and City apprentices
had got bucklers; and the duels, no death following, ceased to be
sublime. About fifty years ago, serious men took to fighting with
rapiers, and the buckler fell away. Holles in Sherwood, as we saw,
fought with rapier, and he soon spoiled Markham. Rapier and
dagger especially; that is a more silent duel, but a terribly serious
1 Stowe's Chronicle, and Howe's Continuation, 1024, &c.
TWO-HUNDRED-ANE)-FIFTY YEARS AGO. 323
one! Perhaps the reader will like to take a view of one such seri-
ous duel in those days, and therewith close this desultory chapter.
It was at the siege of Juliers, in the Netherlands wars, of the
year 1610; we give the date, for wars are perpetual, or nearly so,
in the Netherlands. At one of the storm-parties of the siege of
Juliers, the gallant Sir Hatton Cheek, above alluded to, a superior
officer of the English force which fights there under my Lord Cecil,
that shall be Wimbledon; the gallant Sir Hatton, I say, being of
hot temper, superior officer, and the service a storm-party on some
bastion or demilune, speaks sharp word of command to Sir Thomas
Dutton, the officer under him, who also is probably of hot temper
in this hot moment. Sharp word of command to Dutton; and
the movement not proceeding rightly, sharp word of rebuke. To
which Dutton, with kindled voice, answers something sharp; is
answered still more sharply with voice high-flaming;-whereat
Dutton suddenly holds-in; says merely, “He is under military
duty here, but perhaps will not always be so;” and rushing for-
ward, does his order silently, the best he can. His order done,
Dutton straightway lays down his commission; packs up, that
night, and returns to England.
Sir Hatton Cheek prosecutes his work at the siege of Juliers;
gallantly assists at the taking of Juliers, triumphant over all the
bastions. and half-moons there; but hears withal that Dutton is, at
home in England, defaming him as a choleric tyrant and so forth.
Dreadful news; which brings some biliary attack on the gallant
man, and reduces him to a bed of sickness. Hardly recovered, he
despatches message to Dutton, That he will request to have the
pleasure of his company, with arms and seconds ready, on some
neutral ground,-Calais sands for instance,—at an early day, if
convenient. Convenient; yes, as dinner to the hungry ! answers
Dutton; and time, place and circumstances are rapidly enough
agreed upon.
And so, on Calais sands, in a winter morning of the year 1610,
this is what we see, most authentically, through the lapse of dim
* Siege began in the latter end of July 1610; ended victoriously, 4th Sep-
tember following: principal assaults were, 10th August and 14th August ; in
one of which this affair of ours must have taken rise. Siege commanded by
Christian of Anhalt, a famed Protestant Captain of those times. Henri IV.
of France was assassinated while setting-out for this siege; Prince Maurice of
Nassau was there ; Dutch troops, French, English and German' (Branden-
burgers and Pfalz-Neuburgers chiefly, versus Kaiser Rodolf II, and his unjust
seizure of the Town) “fought with the greatest unity.’ Prelude to the Thirty-
Years War, and one of the principal sources of it, this Controversy about
Juliers. (Carl Friedrich Pauli: Allgemeine Preussische Staats-Geschächte, 4to,
Halle, 1762, iii. 502-527.)
324 MISCELLANIES,
Time. Two gentlemen stript to the shirt and waistband; in the
two hands of each a rapier and dagger clutched; their looks
sufficiently serious ! The seconds, having stript, equipt, and fairly
overhauled and certified them, are just about retiring from the
measured fate-circle, not without indignation that they are forbid-
den to fight. Two gentlemen in this alarming posture ; of whom
the Universe knows, has known, and will know nothing, except
that they were of choleric humour, and assisted in the Netherlands
wars . They are evidently English human creatures, in the height
of silent fury, and measured circuit of fate; whom we here audibly
name once more, Sir Hatton Cheek, Sir Thomas Dutton, knights
both, soldadoes both. Ill-fated English human creatures, what
horrible confusion of the Pit is this ?
Dutton, though in suppressed rage, the seconds about to with-
draw, will explain some things if a word were granted. “No
words,” says the other; “stand on your guard " brandishing his
rapier, grasping harder his dagger. Dutton, now silent too, is on
his guard. Good Heavens: after some brief flourishing and flash-
ing, the gleam of the swift clear steel playing madly in one's eyes,
—they, at the first pass, plunge home on one another; home, with
beak and claws; home to the very heart! Cheek's rapier is through
Dutton's throat from before, and his dagger is through it from be-
hind,-the windpipe miraculously missed; and, in the same in-
stant, Dutton's rapier is through Cheek's body from before, his
dagger through his back from behind,-lungs and life not missed ;
and the seconds have to advance, “pull out the four bloody wea-
pons,' disengage that hell-embrace of theirs. This is serious
enough ! Cheek reels, his life fast flowing; but still rushes rabid
on Dutton, who merely parries, skips; till Cheek reels down, dead
in his rage. “He had a bloody burial there that morning,” says
my ancient friend." He will assist no more in the Netherlands or
other wars.
Such scene does History disclose, as in sunbeams, as in blazing
hell fire, on Calais sands, in the raw winter morning; then drops
the blanket of centuries, of everlasting Night, over it, and passes
on elsewhither. Gallant Sir Hatton Cheek lies buried there, and
Cecil of Wimbledon, son of Burleigh, will have to seek another supe-
rior officer. What became of the living Dutton afterwards, I have
never to this moment had the least hint.
| Wilson (in Kennet), ii. 684.
THE OPERA.!
[“DEAR P., Not having anything of my own which I could contribute (as
is my wish and duty) to this pious Adventure of yours, and not being able in
these busy days to get anything ready, I decide to offer you a bit of an Excerpt
from that singular Conspectus of England, lately written, not yet printed, by
Professor Ezechiel Peasemeal, a distinguished American friend of mine. Dr.
Peasemeal will excuse my printing it here. His Conspectus, a work of some
extent, has already been crowned by the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Buncombe,
which includes, as you know, the chief thinkers of the New World; and it will
probably be printed entire in their “Transactions one day. Meanwhile let
your readers have the first taste of it; and much good may it do them and
you !”—T. C.]
MUSIC is well said to be the speech of angels; in fact, nothing
among the utterances allowed to man is felt to be so divine. It
brings us near to the Infinite ; we look for moments, across the
cloudy elements, into the eternal Sea of Light, when song leads
and inspires us. Serious nations, all nations that can still listen
to the mandate of Nature, have prized song and music as the
highest; as a vehicle for worship, for prophecy, and for whatsoever
in them was divine. Their singer was a vates, admitted to the
council of the universe, friend of the gods, and choicest benefactor
to man.
Beader, it was actually so in Greek, in Roman, in Moslem,
Christian, most of all in Old-Hebrew times: and if you look how
it now is, you will find a change that should astonish you. Good
Heavens, from a Psalm of Asaph to a seat at the London Opera in
the Haymarket, what a road have men travelled ! The waste that
is made in music is probably among the saddest of all our squan-
derings of God's gifts. Music has, for a long time past, been
avowedly mad, divorced from sense and the reality of things; and
runs about now as an open Bedlamite, for a good many genera-
tions back, bragging that she has nothing to do with sense and
reality, but with fiction and delirium only; and stares with un-
affected amazement, not able to suppress an elegant burst of witty
laughter, at my suggesting the old fact to her.
1 KEEPSAKE for 1852.—The * dear P.” there, I recollect, was my old friend
Procter (Barry Cornwall); and his ‘pious Adventure' had reference to that same
Publication, under touching human circumstances which had lately arisen.
326 MISCELLANIES.
Fact nevertheless it is, forgotten, and fallen ridiculous as it
may be. Tyrtaeus, who had a little music, did not sing Barbers of
Seville, but the need of beating back one's country's enemies; a
most true song, to which the hearts of men did burst responsive
into fiery melody, followed by fiery strokes before long. Sophocles
also sang, and showed in grand dramatic rhythm and melody, not
a fable but a fact, the best he could interpret it; the judgments of
Eternal Destiny upon the erring sons of men. AEschylus, So-
phocles, all noble poets were priests as well; and sang the truest
(which was also the divinest) they had been privileged to discover
here below. To “sing the praise of God,' that, you will find, if
you can interpret old words, and see what new things they mean,
was always, and will always be, the business of the singer. He
who forsakes that business, and, wasting our divinest gifts, sings
the praise of Chaos, what shall we say of him
David, king of Judah, a soul inspired by divine music and
much other heroism, was wont to pour himself in song; he, with
seer's eye and heart, discerned the Godlike amid the Human;
struck tones that were an echo of the sphere-harmonies, and are
still felt to be such. Reader, art thou one of a thousand, able still
to read a Psalm of David, and catch some echo of it through the
old dim centuries; feeling far off, in thy own heart, what it once
was to other hearts made as thine? To sing it attempt not, for it
is impossible in this late time ; only know that it once was sung.
Then go to the Opera, and hear, with unspeakable reflections, what
things men now sing ! 3% ºf 3%
Of the Haymarket Opera my account, in fine, is this: Lustres,
candelabras, painting, gilding at discretion; a hall as of the Caliph
Alraschid, or him that commanded the slaves of the Lamp; a hall
as if fitted-up by the genii, regardless of expense. Upholstery,
and the outlay of human capital, could do no more. Artists, too,
as they are called, have been got together from the ends of the
world, regardless likewise of expense, to do dancing and singing,
some of them even geniuses in their craft. One singer in particu-
lar, called Coletti or some such name, seemed to me, by the cast
of his face, by the tones of his voice, by his general bearing, so far
as I could read it, to be a man of deep and ardent sensibilities, of
delicate intuitions, just sympathies; originally an almost poetic
soul, or man of genius, as we term it; stamped by Nature as capa-
ble of far other work than squalling here, like a blind Samson, to
make the Philistines sport
Nay, all of them had aptitudes, perhaps of a distinguished kind;
and must, by their own and other people's labour, have got a train-
THE opFRA. 327
ing equal or superior in toilsomeness, earnest assiduity, and pati-
ent travail, to what breeds men to the most arduous trades. I
speak not of kings, grandees, or the like show-figures; but few
soldiers, judges, men of letters, can have had such pains taken
with them. The very ballet-girls, with their muslin saucers round
them, were perhaps little short of miraculous; whirling and spin-
ning there in strange mad vortexes, and then suddenly fixing
themselves motionless, each upon her left or right great toe, with
the other leg stretched out at an angle of ninety degrees, as if
you had suddenly pricked into the floor, by one of their points, a
pair, or rather a multitudinous cohort, of mad restlessly jumping
and clipping scissors, and so bidden them rest, with opened blades,
and stand still, in the Devil's name ! A truly notable motion;
marvellous, almost miraculous, were not the people there so used
to it. Motion peculiar to the Opera; perhaps the ugliest, and
surely one of the most difficult, ever taught a female creature in
this world. Nature abhors it; but Art does at least admit it to
border on the impossible. One little Cerito, or Taglioni the Se-
cond, that night when I was there, went bounding from the floor
as if she had been made of Indian-rubber, or filled with hydrogen
gas, and inclined by positive levity to bolt through the ceiling;
perhaps neither Semiramis nor Catherine the Second had bred
herself so carefully. * . -
Such talent, and such martyrdom of training, gathered from the
four winds, was now here, to do its feat and be paid for it. Re-
gardless of expense, indeed! The purse of Fortunatus seemed to
have opened itself, and the divine art of Musical Sound and Rhyth-
mic Motion was welcomed with an explosion of all the magnifi-
cences which the other arts, fine and coarse, could achieve. For
you are to think of some Rossini or Bellini in the rear of it, too:
to say nothing of the Stanfields, and hosts of scene-painters, ma-
chinists, engineers, enterprisers;–fit to have taken Gibraltar, writ-
ten the History of England, or reduced Ireland into Industrial Re-
giments, had they so set their minds to it ! . -
Alas, and of all these notable or noticeable human talents, and
excellent perseverances and energies, backed by mountains of
wealth, and led by the divine art of Music and Rhythm vouch-
safed by Heaven to them and us, what was to be the issue here
this evening? An hour's amusement, not amusing either, but
wearisome and dreary, to a high-dizened select populace of male
and female persons, who seemed to me not much worth amusing !
Could any one have pealed into their hearts once, one true thought,
and glimpse of Self-vision: “High-dizened, most expensive per-
sons, Aristocracy so-called, or Best of the World, beware, beware
328 MISCELLANIES,
what proofs you are giving here of betterness and bestness!” And
then the salutary pang of conscience in reply: “A select populace,
with money in its purse, and drilled a little by the posture-master:
good Heavens ! if that were what, here and everywhere in God's
Creation, I am & And a world all dying because I am, and show
myself to be, and to have long been, even that ? John, the car-
riage, the carriage; swift | Let me go home in silence, to reflec-
tion, perhaps to sackcloth and ashes!” This, and not amusement,
would have profited those high-dizened persons.
Amusement, at any rate, they did not get from Euterpe and
Melpomene. These two Muses, sent-for regardless of expense, I
could see, were but the vehicle of a kind of service which I judged
to be Paphian rather. Young beauties of both sexes used their
opera-glasses, you could notice, not entirely for looking at the
stage. And, it must be owned, the light, in this explosion of all
the upholsteries, and the human fine arts and coarse, was magical;
and made your fair one an Armida,-if you liked her better so.
Nay, certain old Improper-Females (of quality), in their rouge and
jewels, even these looked some reminiscence of enchantment; and
I saw this and the other lean domestic Dandy, with icy Smile on
his old worn face; this and the other Marquis Chatabagues, Prince
Mahogany, or the like foreign Dignitary, tripping into the boxes
of said females, grinning there awhile, with dyed moustachios and
macassar-oil graciosity, and then tripping out again;–and, in fact,
I perceived that Coletti and Cerito and the Rhythmic Arts were
a mere accompaniment here.
Wonderful to see; and sad, if you had eyes | Do but think of
it. Cleopatra threw pearls into her drink, in mere waste ; which
was reckoned foolish of her. But here had the Modern Aristocracy
of men brought the divinest of its Arts, heavenly Music itself; and,
piling all the upholsteries and ingenuities that other human art
could do, had lighted them into a bonfire to illuminate an hour's
flirtation of Chatabagues, Mahogany, and these improper persons!
Never in Nature had I seen such waste before. O Coletti, you
whose inborn melody, once of kindred, as I judged, to ‘the Melo-
dies Eternal,’ might have valiantly weeded-out this and the other
false thing from the ways of men, and made a bit of God's Crea-
tion more melodious, they have purchased you away from that;
chained you to the wheel of Prince Mahogany's chariot, and here
you make sport for a macassar Chatabagues and his improper-fe-
males past the prime of life! Wretched spiritual Nigger, oh, if you
had some genius, and were not a born Nigger with mere appetite
for pumpkin, should you have endured such a lot? I lament for
you beyond all other expenses. Other expenses are light; you
THE OPERA. 829.
are the Cleopatra's pearl that should not have been flung into Ma-
hogany's claret-cup. And Rossini, too, and Mozart and Bellini—
Oh, Heavens! when I think that Music too is condemned to be
mad, and to burn herself, to this end, on such a funeral pile, your
celestial Opera-house grows dark and infernal to me! Behind its
glitter stalks the shadow of Eternal Death; through it too, I look
not ‘up into the divine eye,’ as Richter has it, “but down into the
bottomless eye-socket'—not up towards God, Heaven, and the
Throne of Truth, but too truly down towards Falsity, Vacuity, and
the dwelling-place of Everlasting Despair. # # #
Good sirs, surely I by no means expect the Opera will abolish
itself this year or the next. But if you ask me, Why heroes are
not born now, why heroisms are not done now? I will answer you:
It is a world all calculated for strangling of heroisms. At every
ingress into life, the genius of the world lies in wait for heroisms,
and by seduction or compulsion unweariedly does its utmost to
pervert them or extinguish them. Yes; to its Hells of sweating
tailors, distressed needlewomen and the like, this Opera of yours
is the appropriate Heaven! Of a truth, if you will read a Psalm
of Asaph till you understand it, and then come hither and hear the
Rossini-and-Coletti Psalm, you will find the ages have altered a
good deal. # # #
Nor do I wish all men to become Psalmist Asaphs and fanatic
Hebrews. Far other is my wish; far other, and wider, is now my
notion of this Universe. Populations of stern faces, stern as any
Hebrew, but capable withal of bursting into inextinguishable
laughter on occasion :-do you understand that new and better
form of character? Laughter also, if it come from the heart, is a
heavenly thing. But, at least and lowest, I would have you a Popu-
lation abhorring phantasms;–abhorring unveracity in all things;
and in your “amusements,” which are voluntary and not compul-
sory things, abhorring it most impatiently of all. * # *
330 - MISCELLANIES,
PROJECT OF A NATIONAL EXHIBITION OF
SCOTTISH PORTRAITS.]
[1854.]
To DAVID LAING, Esquire (Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries of
Scotland), Signet Library, Edinburgh.
MY DEAR SIR, Chelsea, 3d May 1854.
With regard to that General Eaſhibition of Scottish Historical
Portraits, it is certain there are many people more qualified to
speak than I. In fact, it has never been with me more than an
aspiration; an ardent wish, rather without much hope: to make
it into an executable project, there are needed far other capacities
and opportunities than mine. However, you shall at once hear
what my crude notions on the subject are or have been, since you
wish it.
First of all, then, I have to tell you, as a fact of personal expe-
rience, that in all my poor Historical investigations it has been,
and always is, one of the most primary wants to procure a bodily
likeness of the personage inquired after; a good Portrait if such
exists; failing that, even an indifferent if sincere one. In short,
any representation, made by a faithful human creature, of that
Face and Figure, which he saw with his eyes, and which I can
never see with mine, is now valuable to me, and much better than
none at all. This, which is my own deep experience, I believe to
be, in a deeper or less deep degree, the universal one; and that
every student and reader of History, who strives earnestly to con-
ceive for himself what manner of Fact and Man this or the other
vague Historical Name can have been, will, as the first and direct-
est indication of all, search eagerly for a Portrait, for all the rea-
sonable Portraits there are ; and never rest till he have made out,
if possible, what the man's natural face was like. Often I have
found a Portrait Superior in real instruction to half-a-dozen writ-
ten ‘Biographies,' as Biographies are written;–or rather, let me
say, I have found that the Portrait was as a small lighted candle
1 Printed in Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, vol. i.
Part 3 (4to, Edinburgh, 1855).
EXHIBITION OF SCOTTISH PORTRAITS. 331
by which the Biographies could for the first time be read, and some
human interpretation be made of them; the Biographied Personage
no longer an empty impossible Phantasm, or distracting Aggregate
of inconsistent rumours—(in which state, alas his usual one, he is.
worth nothing to anybody, except it be as a dried thistle for Ped-
ants to thrash, and for men to fly out of the way of), but yield-
ing at last some features which one could admit to be human.
Next in directness are a man's genuine Letters, if he have left
any, and you can get to read them to the bottom: of course, a
man's actions are the most complete and indubitable stamp of
him; but without these aids, of Portraits and Letters, they are in
themselves so infinitely abstruse a stamp, and so confused by for-
eign rumour and false tradition of them, as to be oftenest undeci-
pherable with certainty.
This kind of value and interest I may take as the highest pitch
of interest there is in Historical Portraits; this, which the zealous
and studious Historian feels in them: and one may say, all men,
just in proportion as they are ‘Historians' (which every mortal is,
who has a memory, and attachments and possessions in the Past),
will feel something of the same, Levery human creature, some-
thing. So that I suppose there is absolutely nobody so dark and
dull, and everyway sunk and stupefied, that a Series of Historical
Portraits, especially of his native country, would not be of real
interest to him;-real I mean, as coming from himself and his
own heart, not imaginary, and preached-in upon him by the News-
papers; which is an important distinction.
And all this is quite apart from the artistic value of the Por-
traits (which also is a real value, of its sort, especially for some
classes, however exaggerated it may sometimes be): all this is a
quantity to be added to the artistic value, whatever it may be ; and
appeals to a far deeper and more universal principle in human
nature than the love of Pictures is. Of which principle some dim-
mer or clearer form may be seen continually active wherever men
are;—in your Antiquarian Museum, for example, may be seen,
giving very conspicuous proofs of itself, sanctioned more or less
by all the world ! If one would buy an indisputably authentic old
shoe of William Wallace for hundreds of pounds, and run to look
at it from all ends of Scotland, what would one give for an authen-
tic visible shadow of his face, could such, by art natural or art
magic, now be had
It has always struck me that Historical Portrait-Galleries far
transcend in worth all other kinds of National Collections of Pic-
tures whatever; that in fact they ought to exist (for many reasons,
of all degrees of weight) in every country, as among the most po-
332 MISCELLANIES,
pular and cherished National Possessions:—and it is not a joyful
reflection, but an extremely mournful one, that in no country is
there at present such a thing to be found. What Louis-Philippe
may have collected, in the way of French Historical Portrait, at
Versailles, I did not see: if worth much (which I hear it is not),
it might have proved the best memorial left by him, one day.
Chancellor Clarendon made a brave attempt in that kind for Eng-
land; but his House and ‘Gallery' fell all asunder, in a sad way;
and as yet there has been no second attempt that I can hear of
As matters stand, Historical Portraits abound in England; but
where they are, or where any individual of them is, no man knows,
or can discover except by groping and hunting (underground, as it
were, and like the mole !) in an almost desperate manner: even
among the intelligent and learned of your acquaintance, you in-
quire to no purpose. Nor is the English National Gallery poorer
in this respect than others, perhaps even much the reverse. The
sad rule holds in all countries. In the Dresden Gallery, for in-
stance, you find Flayings of Bartholomew, Flayings of Marsyas,
Rapes of the Sabines: but if you ask for a Portrait of Martin Lu-
ther, of Friedrich the Wise, nay even of August the Big, of Marshal
Saxe or poor Count Brühl, you will find no satisfactory answer.
In Berlin itself, which affects to be a wiser city, I found, not long
ago, Picture-Galleries not a few, with ancient and modern virtù
in abundance and superabundance,—whole acres of mythological
smearing (Tower of Babel, and I know not what), by Kaulbach
and others, still going on : but a genuine Portrait of Frederic the
Great was a thing I could nowhere hear of That is strange, but
that is true. I roamed through endless lines of Pictures; inquired
far and wide, even Sculptor Rauch could tell me nothing: at last
it was chiefly by good luck that the thing I was in quest of turned
up.–This I find to be one of the saddest of those few defects in
the world which are easily capable of remedy: I hope you in Scot-
land, in the ‘new National Museum' we hear talk of, will have a
good eye to this, and remedy it in your own case ! Scotland at
present is not worse than other countries in the point in question:
but neither is it at all better; and as Scotland, unlike some other
countries, has a History of a very readable nature, and has never
published even an engraved series of National Portraits, perhaps
the evil is more sensible and patent there than elsewhere. It is
an evil which should be everywhere remedied: and if Scotland be
the first to set an example in that respect, Scotland will do honour-
ably by herself, and achieve a benefit to all the world.
From this long Prologue, if you have patience to consider it
EXHIBITION OF SCOTTISH PORTRAITS. 333
over, you will see sufficiently what my notion of the main rules
for executing the Project would be. The grand interest to be held
in view is that which I have defined as the Historian's, the ingenu-
ous sincere Student of History's. Ingenuous and sincere student;
not pedantic, fantastic and imaginary ! It seems to me all real in-
terest for the other classes of mankind, down to the most ignorant
class, may well be considered as only a more and more diluted
form of that interest. The rule therefore is, Walk straight towards
that; not refusing to look to the right and left, but keeping your
face steadily on that: if you can manage to secure that well, all
else will follow from it, or attend it. Ask always, What would the
best-informed and most ingenuous Scottish soul like most to see,
for illuminating and verifying of Scottish History to himself?
This is what it concerns us to try if we can get for him and for the
world ;-and, on the whole, this only; for it is certain, all other
men will by and by follow this best-informed and most ingenuous
one; and at the end of the account, if you have served him well,
you will turn-out to have served everybody well.
Great zeal, great industry will of course be needed in hunting-
up what Portraits there are, scattered wide over country mansions
in all parts of Scotland;—in gathering-in your raw-material, so to
speak. Next, not less, but even more important, will be skill,—
knowledge, judgment, and above all, fidelity,+in selecting, exhi-
biting and elucidating these. That indeed, I reckon, will be the
vitallest condition of all; the cardinal point, on which success or
failure will turn. You will need the best Pictorial judgment (some
faithful critic who really knows the Schools and Epochs of Art a
little, and can help towards the solution of so many things that
will depend on that); especially all the Historical knowledge and
good sense that can be combined upon the business will be indis-
pensable ! For the rest, I would sedulously avoid all concern with
the vulgar Showman or Charlatan line of action in this matter.
For though the thing must depend, a good deal at least, on popu-
lar support, the real way to get that (especially in such a matter)
is, to deserve it: the thing can by no means be done by Yankee-
Barnum methods; nor should it, if it could.—In a word, here as
everywhere, to winnow-out the chaff of the business, and present
in a clear and pure state what of wheat (little or much) may be
in it; on this, as I compute, the Project will stand or fall. If
faithfully executed, - the chaff actually well suppressed, the
wheat honestly given,--I cannot doubt but it might succeed.
Let it but promise to deserve success, I suppose honourable
help might be got for it among the wealthier and wiser classes of
Scotchmen.
334 MISOELLANIES.
But to come now to your more specific questions, I should be
inclined, on the above principles, to judge:
1°. That no living Scotchman's portrait should be admitted,
however ‘Historical’ it promised to be. And I would farther coun-
sel that you should be extremely chary about such ‘Historical
men' as have died within the last twenty-five or thirty years; it
requires always the space of a generation to discriminate between
popular monstrosities and Historical realities in the matter of
Men, to let mere dust-clouds settle into their natural place and
bulk. But from that point, especially from the beginning of this
century, you have free scope, and ever freer, backwards to the very
beginning of things, -which, alas, in the Pictorial respect, I fear
will only be some two or three centuries, or little more | The old-
'est Scottish portrait I can recollect to have seen, of any worth, is
that of James IV. (and only as an engraving, the original at Tay-
mouth), though probably enough you may know of older. But for
the earlier figures,—I would go back to Colm and Adamnan,—if I
could, by any old illuminated missal or otherwise? You will have
engravings, coins, casts of sepulchral monuments—I have seen
Bruce's skull, at least, cast in plaster!—and remember always that
any genuine help to conceive the actual likeness of the man will
be welcome, in these as indeed in all cases. The one question is,
that they be genuine (or, if not, well marked as doubtful, and in
what degree doubtful); that they be “helps, instead of hindrances
and criminal misguidances !
2°. In regard to modern pictures representing historical events,
my vote would clearly be, To make the rule absolute not to admit
any one of these ; at least not till I saw one that was other than an
infatuated blotch of insincere ignorance, and a mere distress to an
earnest and well-instructed eye | Since the time of Hollar, there
is not the least veracity, even of intention, in such things; and, for
most part, there is an ignorance altogether abject. Wilkie's John
Know, for example: no picture that I ever saw by a man of genius
can well be, in regard to all earnest purposes, a more perfect fail-
ure I Can anything, in fact, be more entirely useless for earnest
purposes, more unlike what ever could have been the reality, than
that gross Energumen, more like a boxing-butcher, whom he has
set into a pulpit surrounded with draperies, with fat-shouldered
women, and play-actor men in mail, and labelled KNox? I know
the picture only by engravings, always hasten-on when I see it in
a window, and would not for much have it hung on the wall be-
side me! So, too, I have often seen a Battle of Worcester, by some
famed Academician or other, which consists of an angry man and
horse (man presumably intended for Cromwell, but not like him),
EXHIBITION OF SCOTTISH PORTRAITS. 335
—man, with heavy flapping Spanish cloak, &c., and no hat to his
head, firing a pistol over his shoulder into what seems a dreadful
shower of rain in the distancel What can be the use of such
things, except to persons who have turned their back on real inter-
ests, and gone wool-gathering in search of imaginary 2 All that
kind of matter, as indisputable “chaff, ought to be severely purged
away.
3°. With respect to plurality of portraits, when you have the
offer of more than one 2 The answer to that, on the principles
already stated, will come-out different in different cases, and be an
affair of consideration and compromise. For the earlier (and more
uncertain) figures, I should incline to admit all that could be got;
certainly all that could be found genuine, that were “helps,’ as
above said. Nay, such even as were only half-genuine, if there
were no others; marking well their doubtful character. As you
come lower down, the selection will be stricter; and in quite mo-
dern times when pictures are plentiful, I should think one portrait
would in general be the rule. But of course respect must be had
to the importance of the man, the earcellence of the portraits offered
(or their peculiar worth for your objects), the quantity of house-
room you are like to have, &c. &c.; and the decision will be the
summary and adjustment of all these considerations.
For example, during the Reformation period I would take of
John Knox, and his consorts and adversaries (Lethington, Kirk-
caldy, Regents Murray, Morton, and Mar, Buchanan, Bothwell,
even Rizzio, and the like), any picture I could get; all attainable
pictures, engravings, &c., or almost all, unless they be more numer-
ous than I suppose,_might promise to be “helps, in that great
scarcity, and great desire to be helped. While, again, in reference
to The Forty-five, where pictures abound, and where the personages
and their affair are so infinitely insignificant in comparison, I
should expect that one portrait, and that only of the very topmost
men, would well suffice. Yet there is a real interest, too, in that
poor Forty-five-for, in fine, we lie very near it still, and that is al-
ways a great point; and I should somehow like to have a Hawley,
a Sir John Cope, Wade, and Duke of Cumberland smuggled in,
by way of “illustrative Notes,' if that were possible. Nay, I really
think it should be done; and, on the whole, perceive that The
Forty-five will be one of your more opulent fields.
The question “Who is a Historical Character?” is, in many
cases, already settled, and, in most cases, will be capable of easy
settlement. In general, whoever lives in the memory of Scotch-
men, whoever is yet practically recognisable as a conspicuous
worker, speaker, singer, or sufferer in the past time of Scotland,
336 MISCELLANIES,
he is a ‘Historical Character,’ and we shall be glad to see the
Veritable likeness of him. For examples, given at random :—
George Buchanan, David Rizzio, Lord Hailes, Lord Kames, Mon-
boddo, Bozzy, Burns, Gawin Douglas, Barbour, Jamie Thomson.
I would take in, and eagerly, David Dale (of the cotton manufac-
ture), less eagerly Dundas (of the suffrage ditto), and, in general,
ask myself, Who said, did, or suffered anything truly memorable,
or even anything still much remembered ? Frºm Bruce down to
Heathfield and Abercromby, the common History-books will direct
you plentifully as to one class; and for the others, knowledge and
good judgment will be the methods.
49. Lastly, as to the Catalogue. I am accustomed to conceive
the Catalogue, if well done, as one of the best parts of the whole.
Brevity, sound knowledge, exactitude, fidelity, ought to be the
characteristic of every feature of it. Say you allow, on the average,
not more than half a page to each, in by far the majority of cases;
hardly more than a page to any : historical, lucid, above all things
exact. I would give the essence of the man's history, condensed to
the very utmost ; the dates, his birth, death, main transactions,—
in short, the bones of his history; then add reference to books
and sources (carefully distinguishing the good from the less good),
where his history and character can be learned farther by such as
wish to study it. Afterwards, in a line or two, indicate the actual
habitat of the picture here exhibited ; its history, if it have one;
that it is known to be by such and such a master (and on what
authority), or that it is only guessed. What value and excellence
might lie in such a Catalogue, if rightly done, I need not say to
David Laing; nor what labour, knowledge and resources would
be needed to do it well ! Perhaps divided among several men
(with some head to preside over all), according to the several periods
and classes of subject;-I can perceive work enough for you, among
others, there ! But, on the whole, it could be done; and it would
be well worth doing, and a permanently useful thing. I would
have it printed in some bound form, not as a pamphlet, but still
very cheap; I should expect a wide immediate sale for it at rail-
way stations and elsewhere while the Exhibition went on, and a
steady and permanent sale for it afterwards for a long time indeed.
A modern Nicolson, done according to the real want of the present
day; and far beyond what any ‘Historical Library,’ with its dusty
pedantries, ever was before
But enough now. Your patience must not be quite ridden to
death, and the very paper admonishes me to have done. Accept
in good part what hasty stuff I have written; forgive it at least.
I must say, this Small National Project has again grown to look
EXHIBITION OF SCOTTISH PORTRAITS. 337
quite beautiful to me;—possible surely in some form, and full
of uses. Probably the real “Crystal Palace” that would beseem
poor old Scotland in these days of Exhibitions,—a country rather
eminently rich in men perhaps, which is the pearl and soul of all
other “riches.”—Believe me yours ever truly,
- T. CARLYLE."
1 Some efforts, Ibelieve, were made in the direction indicated, by Gentlemen
of the Antiquarian Society and others; but as yet without any actual “ Exhi-
bition” coming to light. Later, and for Britain at large, we have had, by the
Government itself, some kind of “Commission” or “Board” appointed, for
forming a permanent “National Portrait-Gallery,”—with what success, is still
to be seen.—(Note of 1857.)
WOLe TV. Z
338 MISCELLANIES.
THE PRINZENRAUB : 1
A GLIMPSE OF SAXON HISTORY.
[1855.]
Over seas in Saxony, in the month of July 1455, a notable thing
befel; and this in regard to two persons who have themselves, by
accident, become notable. Concerning which we are now to say
something, with the reader's permission. Unluckily, few English
readers ever heard of the event; and it is probable there is but one
English reader or writer (the present reviewer, for his sins) that
was ever driven or led to inquire into it: so that it is quite wild
soil, very rough for the ploughshare; neither can the harvest well
be considerable. “English readers are so deeply ignorant of
foreign history, especially of German history !” exclaims a learned
professor. Alas, yes; English readers are dreadfully ignorant of
many things, indeed of most things;–which is a lamentable cir-
cumstance, and ought to be amended by degrees.
But, however all this may be, here is somewhat in relation to
that Saxon business, called the Prinzenraub, or Stealing of the
Princes, and to the other “pearls of memory” (do not call them
old buttons of memory !) which string themselves upon the threads
of that. Beating about in those dismal haunted wildernesses;
painfully sorting and sifting in the historical lumber-rooms and
their dusty fusty imbroglios, in quest of far other objects, this is
what we have picked-up on that accidental matter. To which the
reader, if he can make any use of it, has our welcome and our
blessing.
The Wettin Line of Saxon Princes, the same that yet endures,
known by sight to every English creature (for the high individual,
1 WESTMINSTER REVIEw, No. 123, January 1855.-1. Schreiter's Geschächte
des Prinzenrawbs (Schreiter's History of the Stealing of the Princes). Leip-
zig, 1804.
%. Johann Hübner's, Rectoris der Schule zu S. Johannis in Hamburg, Genea-
logische Tabellen (Genealogical Tables, by Johann Hübner, Rector of St. John's
School in Hamburg). 3 vols. oblong 4to. Leipzig, 1725–1728.
3. Genealogische Tafeln zur Staatengeschichte der Germanischen wrºd Sla-
wischen Völker im 19°n Jahrhundert (Genealogical Tables for the State History
of the Germanic and Slavic Nations in the 19th Century). By Dr. Friedrich
Maximilian OErtel. 1 vol. oblong 12mo, Leipzig, 1846.
THE PRINZ, ENRAUB. 339
Prince Albert, is of it), had been lucky enough to combine in itself,
by inheritance, by good management, chiefly by inheritance, and
mere force of survival, all the Three separate portions and divided
dignities of that country: the Thüringen Landgraviate, the Meissen
Markgraviate, and the ancient Duchy and Electorate of Saxony;
and to become very great among the Princes of the German em-
pire. It was in 1423 that Elector Frederick, named der Streitbare
(the Fencible, or Prompt-to-fight), one of the notables of this line,
had got from Emperor Sigismund, for help rendered (of which poor
Sigismund had always need, in all kinds), the vacant Kur (Elector-
ship) and Dukedom of Saxony; after which accession, and through
the earlier portion of the fifteenth century, this Saxon House might
fairly reckon itself the greatest in Germany, till Austria, till Bran-
denburg gradually rose to overshadow it. Law of primogeniture
could never be accepted in that country; nothing but divisions,
redivisions, coalescings, splittings, and never-ending readjustments
and collisions were prevalent in consequence ; to which cause, first
of all, the loss of the race by Saxony may be ascribed.
To enter into all that, be far from us. Enough to say that this
Streitbare, Frederick the Fencible, left several sons, and none of
them without some snack of principality taken from the main lot :
several sons, who, however, by death and bad behaviour, pretty
soon reduced themselves to two: 1st, the eldest, a Frederick,
named the Placid, Peaceable, or Pacific (Friedrich der Sanftmüth-
ige), who possessed the electorate and indivisible, inalienable land
thereto pertaining (Wittenberg, Torgau, &c.; a certain ‘ circle' or
province in the Wittenberg region; of which, as Prussia has now
got all or most of it, the exact boundaries are not known to me);
and 2d, a Wilhelm, who in all the other territories ‘ruled conjointly'
with Frederick.
Conjointly: were not such lands likely to be beautifully ‘ruled'?
Like a carriage-team with two drivers on the box | Frederick,
however, was Pacific; probably an excellent good-natured man ;
for I do not find that he wanted fire either, and conclude that the
friendly elements abounded in him. Frederick was a man that
could be lived with ; and the conjoint government went on, with-
out visible outbreak, between his brother Wilhelm and him, for a
series of years. For twelve years, better or worse;—much better
than our own red and white Roses here at home, which were fast
budding into battles of St. Albans, battles of Towton, and other
sad outcomes about that time ! Of which twelve years we accord-
ingly say nothing.
But now in the twelfth year, a foolish second-cousin, a Friedrich
the Silly (Einfältige), at Weimar, died childless, A.D. 1440, by
340 MISCELLANIES.
which event extensive Thuringian possessions fell into the main
lot again ; whereupon the question arose, How to divide them 2
A question difficult to solve ; which by and by declared itself to be
insoluble ; and gave rise to open war between the brothers Frede-
rick Pacific and Wilhelm of Meissen. Frederick proving stronger,
Wilhelm called-in the Bohemians,—confused Hussite, Ziska-Podie-
brad populations, bitter enemies of orthodox Germany ; against
whom Frederick sent celebrated fighting captains, Kunz von Kau-
fungen and others; who did no good on the Bohemians, but
showed all men how dangerous a conflagration had arisen here in
the heart of the country, and how needful to be quenched without
delay. Accordingly the neighbours all ran up, Kaiser Frederick
III. at the head of them (a cunning old Kaiser, Max's father); and
quenched it was, after four or five years' ruinous confusion, by the
‘treaty of Naumburg in 1450,—most obscure treaty, not necessary
to be laid before the reader;-whereby, if not joint government,
peaceable division and separation could ensue.
The conflagration was thus put out; but various coals of it con-
tinued hot for a long time, Kunz von Kaufungen, above men-
tioned, the hottest of all. Kunz or Conrad, born squire or ritter
of a certain territory and old tower called Kaufungen, the site of
which old tower, if now no ruins of it, can be seen near Penig on
the Mulde river, some two hours' ride south-east of Altenburg in
those Thuringian or Upper Saxon regions,—Kunz had made him-
self a name in the world, though unluckily he was short of pro-
perty otherwise at present. For one thing, Kunz had gained great
renown by beating Albert of Brandenburg, the Albert named Achilles,
third Hohenzollern Elector of Brandenburg, and the fiercest fighter
of his day (a terrible hawk-nosed, square-jawed, lean, ancient man,
ancestor of Frederick the Great); Kunz, I say, had beaten this
potentate, being hired by the town of Nürnberg, Albert's rebel-
lious town, to do it; or if not beaten him (for Albert prevailed in
the end), had at least taken him captive in some fight, and made
him pay a huge ransom. He had also been in the Hussite wars,
this Kunz, fighting up and down : a German condottiere, I find, or
Dugald Dalgetty of the epoch; his last stroke of work had been
this late engagement, under Frederick the Peaceable, to fight
against brother Wilhelm and his Bohemian allies.
In this last enterprise Kunz had prospered but indifferently.
He had indeed gained something they called the ‘victory of Gera,’
—loud honour, I doubt not, and temporary possession of that little
town of Gera;-but in return, had seen his own old tower of Kau-
fungen, and all his properties, wasted by ravages of war. Nay, he
had at length been taken captive by the Bohemians, and been
THE PRINZENRAUB. 341
obliged to ransom himself by huge outlay of money :-4,000 gold-
gulden, or about 2,000l. Sterling ; a crushing sum ! With all which
losses, why did not Kunz lose his life too, as he might easily have
done 2 It would have been better for him. Not having lost his
life, he did of course, at the end of the war, claim and expect in-
demnity: but he could get none, or not any that was satisfactory
to him.
Elector Frederick had had losses of his own; was disposed to
Stick to the letter of his contracts in reference to Kunz : not even
the 4,000 goldgulden of Bohemian ransom would he consent to re-
pay. Elector Frederick alleged that Kunz was not his liegeman,
whom he was bound to protect; but only his soldier, hired to fight
at so much per day, and stand the risks himself. In fine, he
exasperated Kunz very much; and could be brought to nothing,
except to agree that arbitrators should be named, to settle what
was really due from one to the other;—a course of little promise
to indigent, indignant Kunz. The arbitrators did accordingly
meet, and Kunz being summoned, made his appearance; but not
liking the figure of the court, went away again without waiting for
the verdict; which, accordingly, did fall-out infinitely short of his
wishes or expectations, and made the indigent man still more in-
dignant. Violent speeches were heard from him in consequence,
and were officiously reported; nay, some say, were heard by the
Elector himself: for example, That a man might have vengeance,
if he could get nothing else; that an indigent, indignant fighting-
man, driven utterly desperate, would harry and destroy; would do
this and also that, of a direful and dreadful nature. To which the
Elector answered : “Don’t burn the fishponds, at any rate ; the
poor fishes in their ponds !”—still farther angering Kunz. Kunz
was then heard growling about “vengeance not on this unjust
Elector's land and people, but on his flesh and blood ;” in short.
growing ever more intemperate, grim of humour, and violent of
speech, Kunz was at last banished the country; ordered flatly to
go about his business, and growl elsewhere. He went, with cer-
tain indigent followers of his, across into Bohemia; where, after
groping about, he purchased an old castle, Isenburg the name of
it; castle hanging somewhere on the western slopes of the Erzge.
birge (Metal Mountains so-called), convenient for the Saxon fron-
tier, and to be had cheap: this empty damp old castle of Isenburg
Kunz bought ; and lived there, in such humour as may be con-
ceived. Revenge on this unjust Elector, and “not on his land
and people, but on his flesh and blood,” was now the one thought
of Kunz.
Two Misnian squires, Mosen and Schönberg, former subalterns
342 MISCELLAN IES.
of his, I suppose, and equally disaffected as himself, were with him
at Isenburg; besides these, whose connexions and followers could
assist with head or hand, there was in correspondence with him
one Schwalbe, a Bohemian by birth, officiating now as cook (cook
or scullion, I am uncertain which) in the electoral Castle itself at
Altenburg; this Schwalbe, in the way of intelligence and help for
plotting, was of course the most important of all. Intelligence
enough from Schwalbe and his consorts; and schemes grounded
thereon ; first one scheme and then another, in that hungry castle
of Isenburg, we need not doubt. At length word came from
Schwalbe, That on the 7th of July (1455), the Elector was to take
a journey to Leipzig; Electress and two Princes (there were but
two, still boys) to be left behind at Altenburg: whether anything
could follow out of that ? Most of the servants, Schwalbe added,
were invited to a supper in the town, and would be absent drink-
ing. Absent drinking; Princes left unguarded ? Much can follow
out of that Wait for an opportunity till Doomsday, will there
ever come a better? Let this, in brief, be the basis of our grand
scheme ; and let all hands be busy upon it. Isenburg expects
every man to do his duty —Nor was Isenburg disappointed.
The venerable little Saxon town of Altenburg lies, among intri-
cate woods and Metal-Mountain wildernesses, a good day's riding
west from Isenburg: nevertheless, at the fit date, Isenburg has
done its duty; and in spite of the intricacies and the hot weather,
Kunz is on the ground in full readiness. Towards midnight,
namely, on the 7th of July 1455, Kunz, with a party of thirty men,
his two Mismian squires among them, well-mounted and armed,
silently approaches the rendezvous under the Castle of Altenburg;
Softly announces himself, by whew of whistling, or some concerted
signal, audible in the stillness of the ambrosial night. Cook
Schwalbe is awake; Cook Schwalbe answers signal; flings him
down a line, fixes his rope-ladders: Kunz, with his Misnian
squires and a select few more, mounts aloft; leaving the rest be-
low, to be vigilant, to seize the doors especially, when once we are
masters of them from within. -
Kunz, who had once been head chamberlain here, knows every
room and passage of this royal Castle; probably his Misnians also
know it, or a good deal of it, from of old. They first lock all the
servants' doors; lock the Electress's door; walk then into the
room where the two Princes sleep, in charge of their ancient gover-
ness, a feeble old lady, who can give no hindrance;—they seize
the two Princes, boys of twelve and fourteen ; descend with them,
by the great staircase, into the court of the Castle, successfully so
far;-or rather, not quite successfully, but with a mistake to mend.
THE PRINZENRAUB. 343
They find, when in the court of the Castle, that here indeed is
Prince Ernst, the eldest boy, but that instead of Prince Albert we
have brought his bedfellow, a young Count Barby, of no use to us.
This was Mosen the Misnian's mistake ; stupid Mosen Kunz
himself runs aloft again ; finds now the real Albert, who had hid
himself below the bed; descends with the real Albert. “To horse
now, to horse, my men, without delay !” These noises had awak-
ened the Electress; to what terrors and emotions we can fancy.
Finding her door bolted, but learning gradually what is toward,
she speaks or shrieks, from the window, a passionate prayer, in
the name of earth and heaven, Not to take her children from her.
“Whatsoever your demands are, I will see them granted, only
leave my children "–“Sorry we cannot, high Lady ſ” thought
Kunz, and rode rapidly away; for all the Castle is now getting
awake, and locks will not long keep every one imprisoned in his
i’OOHOl.
Kunz, forth again into the ambrosial night, divides his party
into two, one Prince with each ; Kunz himself leading the one,
Mosen to lead the other. They are to ride by two different roads
towards Bohemia, that if one misluck, there may still be another
to make terms. Kunz himself, with the little Albert he has got
on hand (no time to change princes at present), takes the more
northerly road; and both dive into the woods. Not a moment to
be lost; for already the alarm-bell is out at Altenburg,_some ser-
vant having burst his door, and got clutch of it; the results of
which will be manifold ! Result first could not fail : The half.
drunk servants, who are out at supper, come tumbling home;
listen open-mouthed, then go tumbling back into the little town,
and awaken its alarm-bell; which awakens, in the usual progres-
sion, all others whatsoever; so that Saxony at large, to the re-
motest village, from all its belfries, big and little, is ringing madly;
and all day Kunz, at every thin place of the forest, hears a ding-
dong of doom pronounced against him; and plunges deviously for-
ward all the more intently.
A hot day, and a dreadful ride through boggy wastes and in-
tricate mountain woods; with the alarm-bell, and shadow of the
gallows, dogging one all the way. Here, however, we are now,
within an hour of the Bohemian border;-cheerily, my men,
through these wild woods and hills | The young Prince, a boy of
twelve, declares himself dying of thirst. Kunz, not without pity,
not without anxiety on that head, bids his men ride on ; all but
himself and two squires shall ride on, get everything ready at Isen-
burg, whither we and his young Highness will soon follow. Kunz
encourages the Prince ; dismounts, he and his squires, to gather
344 MISCET,LANIES.
him some bilberries. Kunz is busy in that search,-when a black
figure staggers-in upon the scene; a grimy Köhler, namely (Collier,
Charcoal-burner), with a long poking-pole (what he calls schiir-
baum) in his hand : grimy Collier, just awakened from his after-
dinner nap ; somewhat astonished to find company in these soli-
tudes. “How, what ' Who is the young gentleman 2 What are
my Herren pleased to be doing here?” inquired the Collier. “Pooh,
a youth who has run away from his relations; who has fallen
thirsty: do you know where bilberries are 2–No?—Then why not
walk on your way, my grim one?” The grim one has heard ring-
ing of alarm-bells all day; is not quite in haste to go: Kunz,
whirling round to make him go, is caught in the bushes by the
spurs, falls flat on his face; the young Prince whispers eagerly,
“I am Prince Albert, and am stolen ("−Whew-wew !—One of the
squires aims a blow at the Prince, so it is said ; perhaps it was at
the Collier only : the Collier wards with his poking-pole, strikes
fiercely with his poking-pole, fells down the squire, belabours
Kunz himself. During which the Collier's dog lustily barks; and,
behold, the Collier's Wife comes running on the scene, and with
her shrieks brings a body of other colliers upon it: Kunz is evi-
dently done ! He surrenders, with his squires and Prince ; is led,
by this black bodyguard, armed with axes, shovels, poking-poles,
to the neighbouring monastery of Grünhain (Green Grove), and
is there safe warded under lock-and-key. The afternoon of July
8th, 1455; what a day for him and for others l—I remark, with cer-
tainty, that dusty riders, in rather unusual numbers, and of mis-
cellaneous equipment, are also entering London City, far away,
this very evening; a constitutional parliament having to take seat
at Westminster, tomorrow, 9th July 1455, of all days and years,"
to settle what the battle of St. Albans, lately fought, will come
to. For the rest, that the King of England has fallen imbecile,
and his she-wolf of France is on flight; that probably York will be
Protector again (till he lose his head), and that the troubles of
mankind are not limited to Saxony and its Metal Mountains, but
that the Devil everywhere is busy, as usuall—This consideration
will serve at least to date the affair of Kunz for us, and shall
therefore stand unerased.
From Grünhain Monastery the Electress, gladdest of Saxon
mothers, gets back her younger boy to Altenburg, with hope of
the other: praised be heaven forever for it. “And you, O Collier
of a thousand what is your wish, what is your want?—How dared
you beard such a lion as that Kunz, you with your simple poking-
pole, you Collier sent of heaven"—“Madam, I drilled him soundly
1 Henry's History of Britain, vi. 108.
THE PRINZENRAUB. 345
with my poking-pole (hab ihn weidlich getrillt);” at which they all
laughed, and called the Collier der Triller, the Driller.
Meanwhile, Mosen the Misnian is also faring ill; with the
alarm-bells all awake about him, and the country risen in hot
chase. Six of his men have been caught; the rest are diving
ever deeper into the thickets. In the end, they seek shelter in a
cavern, stay there perdue for three days, not far from the castle of
Steina, still within the Saxon border. Three days, while the
debate of Westminster is prosperously proceeding, and imbecile
Henry the Sixth takes his ease at Windsor, these poor fellows
lie quaking, hungry, in their cave; and dare not debate, except in
whispers; very uncertain what the issue will be. The third day
they hear from colliers or wandering woodmen, accidentally talk-
ing together in their neighbourhood, that Kunz is taken, tried,
and most probably beheaded. Well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! Hereupon
they open a correspondence with the nearest Amtmann, him of
Zwickau: to the effect, That if free pardon is granted, they will at
once restore Prince Ernst ; if not, they will at once kill him. The
Amtmann of Zwickau is thrown into excitement, it may well be
supposed: but what can the Amtmann or any official person do?
Accede to their terms, since, as desperate men, they have the
power of enforcing them. It is thought, had they even demanded
Kunz's pardon, it must have been granted ; but they fancied
Kunz already ended, and did not insist on this. Enough, on the
11th of the month, fourth day since the flight, third day in this
hunger-cave of Steina, Prince Ernst was given up; and Mosen,
Schönfels and Co., refreshed with food, fled swiftly unharmed, and
“were never heard of more,’ say my authorities.
Prince Ernst was received by his glad father at Chemnitz;
soon carried to his glad mother and brother at Altenburg: upon
which the whole court, with trembling joy, made a pilgrimage to
Ebersdorf, a monastery and shrine in those parts. They gave
pious thanks there, one and all; the mother giving suitable dota-
tion furthermore ; and, what is notable, hanging-up among her
other votive gifts two coats (she, says rumour and prints; but I
guess it was the lucrative showmen after her): the coat of Kunz,
leather buff I suppose, and the coat of The Driller, Triller, as we
call that heaven-sent Collier, coat grimy black, and made of what
stuff I know not. Which coats were still shown in the present
generation ; nay, perhaps are still to be seen at this day, if a
judicious tourist made inquiry for them.
On the 14th, and not till then, Kunz of Kaufungen, tried and
doomed before, laid his head on the block at Freyberg: some say,
pardon had been got for him from the joyful Serene Highnesses,
346 MISCELLANIES,
but came an hour too late. This seems uncertain, seems impro-
bable: at least poor Dietrich of Kaufungen, his younger brother,
was done to death at Altenburg itself some time after, for “incon-
siderate words’ uttered by him, feelings not sufficiently under
One's control. That Schwalbe, the Bohemian Cook, was torn with
‘red-hot pincers,' and otherwise mercilessly mangled and strangled,
need not be stated. He and one or two others, supposed to be
concerned in his peculiar treason, were treated so; and with this
the gallows-part of the transaction ended.
As to the Driller himself, when asked what his wish was, it
turned out to be modest in the extreme: Only liberty to cut, of
scrags and waste wood, what would suffice for his charring pur-
poses, in those wild forests. This was granted to the man and
his posterity; made sure to him and them by legal deed: and to
this was added, So many yearly bushels of corn from the electoral
stockbarns, and a handsome little farm of land, to grow cole and
sauerkraut, and support what cows and sheep, for domestic milk
and wool, wore necessary to the good man and his successors.
* Which properties,” I am vaguely told, but would go to see it
with my eyes, were I touring in those parts, “they enjoy to this
day.' Perhaps it was a bit of learned jocularity on the part of the
old conveyancers, perhaps in their high chancery at Altenburg
they did not know the man's real name, or perhaps he had no
very fixed one ; at any rate, they called him merely Triller (Dril-
ler), in these important documents: which courtly nickname he
or his sons adopted as a surname that would do very well; Sur-
name borne by them accordingly ever since, and concerning which
there have been treatises written."
This is the tale of Kunz of Kaufungen; this is that adventure
of the Prinzenraub (Stealing of the Princes), much wondered at,
and talked of, by all princes and all courtiers in its own day, and
never quite forgotten since; being indeed apt for remembrance,
and worthy of it, more or less. For it actually occurred in God's
Creation, and was a fact, four-hundred years ago; and also is, and
will forever continue one,—ever-enduring part and parcel of the
Sum of Things, whether remembered or not. In virtue of which
peculiarity it is much distinguished from innumerable other tales
of adventures which did not occur in God's Creation, but only in
the waste chambers (to be let unfurnished) of certain human
beads, and which are part and parcel only of the Sum of No-
1 Groshupf's Oratio de gentis Triller anae ortu (cited in Michaelis, Geschächte
der Chur- und Fürstlichen Häuser ºn Teutschland, i. 469) is one.—See, for the
rest, Schurzfleisch, Dissertatio de Conrado Kaufungo (Wittenberg, 1720);
Tenzel (Gotha, 1700); Rechenberg, De Raptu Ernest et Alberti; Sagittarius,
Fabricius, &c. &c.
THE PRINZENRAUB. 347
things; which nevertheless obtain some temporary remembrance,
and lodge extensively, at this epoch of the world, in similar still
more unfurnished chambers. In comparison, I thought this busi-
ness worth a few words to the ingenuous English reader, who
may still have rooms to let, in that sense. Not only so ; but it
seemed to deserve a little nook in modern memory for other pecu-
liar reasons,—which shall now be stated with extreme brevity.
The two boys, Ernst and Albert, who, at the time of their being
stolen, were fourteen and twelve years old respectively, and had
Frederick the Peaceable, the Placid or Pacific, for father, came safe
to manhood. They got, by lucky survivorship, all these inextri-
cable Saxon Territories combined into Two round lots;–did not,
unfortunately, keep them so ; but split them again into new divi-
sions,—for new despair of the historical student, among others
—and have at this day extensive posterity, of thrice-complex rela-
tionship, of unintelligible names, still extant in the high places of
the world. Unintelligible names, we may well say; each person
having probably from ten to twenty names : not John or Tom ; but
Joachim John Ferdinand Ernst Albrecht; Theodor Tom Carl Fried-
rich Kunz ;—as if we should say, Bill Walter Kit all as one name ;
every one of which is good, could you but omit the others | Pos-
terity of unintelligible names, thrice-complex relationship ;-and
in fine, of titles, qualities and territories that will remain forever
unknown to man. Most singular princely momenclature, which
has often filled me with amazement. Designations worse than
those of the Naples Lazzaroni; who indeed “ have no names,” but
are, I conclude, distinguished by Numbers, No. 1, No. 2, and can
be known when mentioned in human speech ! Names, designa-
tions, which are too much for the human mind ;—which are intri-
cate, long-winded ; abstruse as the Sibyl's Oracles; and flying
about, too, like her leaves, with every new accident, every new
puff of wind. Ever-fluctuating, ever-splitting, coalescing, re-split-
ting, re-combining, insignificant little territories, names, relation-
ships and titles; inextricably indecipherable, and not worth deci-
phering; which only the eye of the Old Serpent could or would
decipher —Let us leave them there; and remark that they are all
divided, after our little stolen Ernst and Albert, into Two main
streams or Lines, the Ernst or Ernestine Line, and the Albert Or
Albertine Line; in which two grand divisions they flow on, each of
them many-branched, through the wilderness of Time ever since.
Many-branched each of the two, but conspicuously separate each
from the other, they flow on; and give us the comfort of their com-
pany, in great numbers, at this very day. We will note a few of
348 MISCELLANIES.
the main phenomena in these two Saxon Lines, higher trees that
have caught our eye, in that sad wilderness of princely shrubbery
unsurveyable otherwise.
ERNESTINE LINE.
Ernst, the elder of those two stolen boys, became Kurfürst
(Elector); and got for inheritance, besides the ‘inalienable proper-
ties' which lie round Wittenberg, as we have said, the better or
Thuringian side of the Saxon country—that is, the Weimar, Gotha,
Altenburg, &c. Principalities:–while the other youth, Albert, had
to take the ‘Osterland (Easternland), with part of Meissen,’ what
we may in general imagine to be (for no German Dryasdust will do
you the kindness to say precisely) the eastern region of what is
Saxony in our day. These Albertines, with an inferior territory,
had, as their main towns, Leipzig and Dresden, a Residenz-Schloss
(or sublime enough Ducal Palace) in each city, Leipzig as yet the
grander and more common one. There, at Leipzig chiefly, I say,
lived the august younger or Albertine Line; especially there lived
Prince Albert himself, a wealthy and potent man, though younger.
But it is with Ernst that we are at present concerned.
As for Ernst, the elder, he and his lived chiefly at Witten.
berg, as I perceive ; there or in the neighbourhood, was their high
Schloss; distinguished among palaces. But they had Weimar,
they had Altenburg, Gotha, Coburg, — above all, they had the
Wartburg, one of the most distinguished Strong Houses any Duke
could live in, if he were of frugal and heroic turn. Wartburg, built
by fabulous Ludwig the Springer, which grandly overhangs the
town of Eisenach, grandly the general Thuringian forest; it is
now, Magician Klingsohr having sung there, St. Elisabeth having
lived there and done conscious miracles, Martin Luther having
lived there and done unconscious ditto, the most interesting
Residenz, or old grim shell of a mountain Castle turned into a
tavern, now to be found in Germany, or perhaps readily in the
world. One feels, standing in Luther's room, with Luther's poor
old oaken table, oaken inkholder still there, and his mark on the
wall which the Devil has not yet forgotten, as if here once more,
with mere Heaven and the silent Thuringian Hills looking on, a
grand and grandest battle of “One man versus the Devil and all
men” was fought, and the latest prophecy of the Eternal was
made to these sad ages that yet run; as if here, in fact, of all
places that the sun now looks upon, were the holiest for a modern
man. To me, at least, in my poor thoughts, there seemed some-
thing of authentically divine in this locality; as if immortal remem-
brances, and sacred influences and monitions were hovering over
THE PRINZENRAUB. 349
it ; speaking sad, and grand, and valiant things to the hearts of
men. A distinguished person, whom I had the honour of attend-
ing on that occasion, actually stooped down, when he thought my
eye was off him ; kissed the old oaken table, though one of the
grimmest men now living ; and looked like lightning and rain all
the morning after, with a visible moisture in those sun-eyes of his,
and not a word to be drawn from him. Sure enough, Ernst and
his line are not at a loss for Residences, whatever else he and
they may want.
Ernst's son was Frederick the Wise, successor in the Kur (Elec-
torship) and paternal lands; which, as Frederick did not marry
and there was only one other brother, were not farther divided on
this occasion. Frederick the Wise, born in 1463, was that ever-
memorable Kurfürst who saved Luther from the Diet of Worms in
1521. A pious Catholic, with due horror of heresy up to that time,
he listened with all his faculties to the poor Monk's earnest speech
of four hours; knew not entirely what to think of it; thought at
least, “We will hear this man farther, we will not burn this man
just yet!"—and snatched him up accordingly, and stuck him safe
into the Wartburg for a year. Honour to such a Kurfürst:—and
what a luck to him and us that he was there to do so ever-memor-
able a thing, just in the nick of time ! A Kurfürst really memor-
able and honourable, by that and by many other acts of wisdom,
piety and prudent magnanimity; in which qualities History tes-
tifies that he shone. He could have had the Kaisership, on Max's
death, some years before, but preferred to have young Charles W.,
Max's grandson, elected to it. Whereby it came that the grand
Reformation Cause, at once the grandest blessing and the grand-
est difficulty, fell to the guidance, not of noble German Veracity
and pious wisdom, but of long-headed obstinate Flemish cunning;
and Elector Frederick indeed had an easier life, but Germany has
ever since had a much harder one ! Two portraits of this wise
Frederick, one by Albert Dürer, and another of inferior quality by
Lucas Kranach, which represent to us an excellent, rather corpu-
lent, elderly gentleman, looking-out from under his electoral cap,
with a fine placid, honest and yet vigilant and sagacious aspect, are
well known to print-collectors : but his history, the practical phy-
siognomy of his life and procedure in this world, is less known to
hereditary governing persons, and others, than it ought to be, if
there were any chance of their taking pattern by him He was
twenty years Luther's senior ; they never met personally, much as
they corresponded together, during the next four years, both living
oftenest in the same town. He died in 1525, and was succeeded
by his brother, John the Steadfast (Johann der Beständige).
350 MISCELLANIES.
This brother, Johann der, Beständige, was four years younger;
he also was a wise and eminently Protestant man. He struggled
very faithfully for the good Cause, during his term of sovereignty;
died in 1532 (fourteen years before Luther), having held the Elec-
torate only seven years. Excellent man, though dreadfully fat;
so that they had to screw him up by machinery when he wished
to mount on horseback, in his old days.-His son was Johann
Friedrich, the Magnanimous by epithet (der Grossmüthige), under
whom the Line underwent sad destinies; lost the Electorship, lost
much ; and split itself after him, into innumerable branches, who
are all of a small type ever since; and whom we shall leave for a
little, till we have brought forward the Albertine Line.
ALBERTINE LINE,
Albert the Courageous (der Beherzte) was thre name this little
stolen boy attained among mankind, when he grew to maturity
and came to his properties in Meissen and the Osterland. What
he did to merit such high title might, at this date, in this place,
be difficult to say. I find he was useful in the Netherlands, assist-
ing Kaiser Max (or rather young Prince Max, Kaiser indeed, and
Charles V.'s grandfather, in time coming) when the said young
Max wedded the beautiful young Mary of Burgundy, the great
heiress in those parts. Max got the Netherlands by this fine
match, and came into properties enough ; and soon into endless
troubles and sorrows thereby; in all which, and in others that
superadded themselves, Albert the Courageous was helpful accord-
ing to ability; distinguishing himself indeed throughout by loy-
alty to his Kaiser; and in general, I think, being rather of a con-
servative turn. The rest of his merit in History, we conclude, it
was work that had mainly a Saxon, or at most a German fame,
and did not reach the ear of the general world. However, sure
enough it all lies safely funded in Saxon and German Life to this
hour, Saxony reaping the full benefit of it (if any); and it shall
not concern us here. Only on three figures of the posterity be-
gotten by him shall we pause a little, then leave him to his fate.
Elector Moritz, Duke George, August the Strong: on these three
we will glance for one moment; the rest, in mute endless proces-
sion, shall rustle past unseen by us.
Albert's eldest son, then, and successor in the eastern properties
and residences, was Duke George of Saxony, called ‘of Saxony,’
as all those Dukes, big and little, were and still are, Herzog Georg
von Sachsen : of whom, to make him memorable, it is enough to
say that he was Luther's Duke George ' Yes, this is he with whom
Luther had such wrangling and jangling. Here, for the first time,
THE PRINZENRAUB. 351
English country-gentlemen may discern “Duke George” as a fact,
though a dark one, in this world; see dimly who begat him, where
he lived, how he actually was (presumably) a human creature, and
not a mere rumour of a name. “Fear of Duke George 2" said Lu-
ther : “No, not that. I have seen the King of Chaos in my time,
Sathanas himself, and thrown my inkbottle at him. Duke George
Had I had business in Leipzig, I should have gone thither, if it
had rained Duke Georges for nine days running !” Well, reader,
this is he: George the Rich, called also the Barbatus (Beardy),
likewise the Learned : a very magnificent Herr; learned, bearded,
gilded, to a notable degree; and much reverenced by many, though
Luther thought so little of him.
He was strong for the old religion, while his cousins went so
valiantly ahead for the new. He attended at Diets, argued, nego-
tiated ; offered to risk life and fortune, in some diplomatic degree,
but was happily never called to do it. His Brother, and most of
his people, gradually became Protestants, which much grieved
him. Pack, unfortunate Herr Pack, whose ‘revelations' gave rise
to the Schmalkaldic League, and to the first Protestant War, had
been his secretary. Pack ran off from him ; made said ‘revela-
tions, That there was a private bargain, between Duke George
and others, headed by the Kaiser, to cut-off and forfeit Philip of
Hesse, the chief Protestant, that &c. &c. : whereby, in the first
place, poor Pack lost his head ; and, in the second place, poor
Duke George's troubles were increased fourfold and tenfold.
Poor soul, he had lost most of his ten children, some of them
in infancy, others in maturity and middle age, by death; was now
himself getting old, within a year or two of seventy; and his trou-
bles not in the least diminishing. At length he lost his wife; the
good old dame, a princess of Bohemia, who had been his stay in
all sorrows, she too was called away from him. Protestantism
spreading, the Devil broken loose, all was against Duke George ;
and he felt that his own time must now be nigh. His very Bro-
ther, now heir-apparent by the death of all the young men, was of
declared Protestant tendencies. George wrote to his Brother,
who, for the present, was very poor, offering to give him up the
government and territories at once, on condition that the Catholic
Religion should be maintained intact: Brother respectfully re-
fused. Duke George then made a will, to the like effect; sum-
moned his Estates to sanction it; Estates would not sanction :
Duke George was seized with dreadful bowel-disorders, and lay
down to die. Sorrow on it ! Alas, alas !
There is one memorability of his sad last moments: A reverend
Pater was endeavouring to strengthen him by assurances about his
352 MISCELLANIE8.
own good works, about the favour of the Saints and such like,
when Dr. Rothe, the Crypto-Protestant medical gentleman, ven-
tured to suggest in the extreme moment, “Gnădiger Herr, you were
often wont to say, Straightforward is the best runner! Do that
yourself; go straight to the blessed Saviour and eternal Son of
God, who bore our sins; and leave the dead Saints alone!”—“Ey,
then—help me, then,” George groaned out in low sad murmur,
“true Saviour, Jesus Christ; take pity on me, and save me by thy
bitter sorrows and death !” and yielded-up his soul in this man-
ner. A much-afflicted, hard-struggling, and not very useful man.
He was so learned, he had written his Father Albert's exploits in
Latin; of which respectable ‘Monograph,” Fabricius, in his Chro-
nicle, has made use. Fabricius: not that big Hamburg Fabricius
of the Bibliothecas; but an earlier minor one, Georg Goldschmied
his vernacular name, who was ‘crowned poet by Kaiser Max, be-
came head-schoolmaster in Meissen, and wrote meritorious chro-
nicles, indifferently exact, Rerum Misnicarum, and such like, he is
the Fabricius to whom the respectable Monograph fell. Of this
poor Duke's palaces and riches, at Leipzig and elsewhere, I say
nothing, except that they were very grand. He wore a magnifi-
cent beard, too, dagger-shaped and very long; was of heroic sta-
ture and carriage; truly a respectable-looking man. I will remem-
ber nothing more of him, except that he was withal an ancestor of
Frederick the Great : no doubt of that small interesting fact. One
of his daughters was married to Philip the Magnanimous of Hesse,
—wife insufficient for magnanimous Philip, wherefore he was ob-
liged to marry a second, or supplement to her, which is a known
story ! But another of Duke George's daughters, who alone con-
cerns us here, was spouse to Joachim II., sixth Kurfürst of Bran-
denburg, who bore him Johann George, seventh ditto, in lawful
wedlock; and so was Frederick the Unique's great-grandfather's
great-grandmother, that is to say, lineal ancestress in the seventh
generation. If it rained Duke Georges nine days running, I would
say no more about them.
We come now to Elector Moritz, our second figure. George's
brother, Henry, succeeded ; lived only for two years; in which
time all went to Protestantism in the eastern parts of Saxony, as
in the western. This Henry's eldest son, and first successor, was
Moritz, the “Maurice” known in English Protestant books; who,
in the Schmalkaldic League and War, played such a questionable
game with his Protestant cousin, of the elder or Ernestine Line,—
quite ousting said cousin, by Superior jockeyship, and reducing
his Line and him to the second rank ever since. This cousin was
Johann Friedrich the Magnanimous, of the Ernestine Line; whom
THE PRINZENRAUB. 353
we left above waiting for that catastrophe; and it came about in
this manner.
Duke Moritz refused, namely, to join his poor cousin and other
fellow Protestants in the Schmalkaldic League or War, in spite of
Secretary Pack's denunciations, and the evidence of facts. Duke
Moritz waited till the Kaiser (Charles W., year 1547), and their
own ill-guidance, had beaten to pieces and ruined said League and
War; till the Kaiser had captured Johann Frederick the Magnani-
mous in person, and was about to kill him. And then, at this
point of the game, by dextrous management, Duke Moritz got the
Electorship transferred to himself; Electorship, with Wittenberg
and the ‘inalienable lands and dignities;’—his poor cousin sitting
prisoner the while, in imminent danger of his life; not getting
loose for five years, but following the Kaiser like condemned lug-
gage, up and down, in a very perilous and uncomfortable manner |
This from Moritz, who was himself a Protestant, only better skilled
in jockeyship, was not thought handsome conduct, —nor could
it be.
However, he made it good; succeeded in it, what is called
succeeding. Neither is the game yet played out, nor Moritz pub-
licly declared (what he fully surely is, and can by discerning eyes
be seen to be) the loser. Moritz kept his Electorship, and, by
cunning jockeying, his Protestantism too; got his Albertine or
junior Line pushed into the place of the Ernestine or first ; in
which dishonourably-acquired position it continues to this day;
performing ever since the chief part in Saxony, as Electors, and
now as Kings of Saxony;-which seems to make him out rather
as winner in the game? For the Ernestine, or honourable Pro-
testant Line is ever since in a secondary, diminished, and as it
were, disintegrated state, a Line broken small; nothing now but a
series of small Dukes, Weimar, Gotha, Coburg, and the like, in
the Thuringian region, who, on mere genealogical grounds, put
Sachsen to their name: Sachsen-Coburg, Sachsen-Weimar, &c.;—
and do not look like winners. Nor perhaps are they, if they also
have played too ill ! Perhaps neither of the two is winner; for
there are many other hands in the game withal: sure I am only
that Moritz has lost, and never could win . As perhaps may ap-
pear yet, by and by.
But, however that may be, the Ernestine Line has clearly got
disintegrated, broken small, and is not in a culminating condition.
These, I say, are the Dukes who in the present day put Sachsen
to their name: sons of Ernst, sons of Johann Friedrich the Mag-
nanimous, all now in a reduced condition: while the sons of
Albert, nephews of George the Dagger-bearded (if it rain Duke
WOL. IV. A. A
354 MISCELLANIES,
Georges'), are Kings of Saxony, so-called Kings. No matter: nay,
who knows whether it is not perhaps even less than nothing to
them, this grand dignity of theirs? Whether, in very truth, if we
look at substance and not semblance, the Albertine Line has risen
since Moritz's time; or in spite of all these crowns and appear-
ances, sublime to the valet judgment, has fallen and is still fall-
ing? I do not find, in fact, that it has ever done anything con-
siderable since; which is the one sure symptom of rising. My
probable conjecture rather is, that it has done (if Nature's Regis-
ter, if the Eternal Daybook, were consulted) very little indeed,
except dwindle into more and more contemptibility, and impo-
tence to do anything considerable whatever ! Which is a very
melancholy issue of Moritz's great efforts; and might give rise to
unspeakable considerations, in many a high man and many a low,
—for which there is not room in this place.
Johann Frederick, it is well known, sat magnanimously playing
chess, while the Kaiser's sentence, of death, was brought in to
him : he listened to the reading of the sentence; said a polite
word or two ; then turning round, with “Pergamus, Let us pro-
ceed!” quietly played on till the checkmate had been settled."
Johann Frederick magnanimously waited-out his five years of cap-
tivity, excellent old Lucas Kranach, his painter and humble friend,
refusing to quit him, but steadfastly sharing the same; then
quietly returned (old Lucas still with him) to his true loving-
hearted wife, to the glad friends whose faith had been tried in the
fire. With such a wife waiting him, and such a Lucas attending
him, a man had still something left, had his lands been all gone;
which in Johann Frederick's case, they were still far from being.
He settled at Weimar, having lost electoral Wittenberg and the
inalienable properties; he continued to do here, as formerly, what-
ever wise and noble thing he could, through the short remainder
of his life:–one wishes he had not founded all that imbroglio of
little dukes' But perhaps he could not help it: law of primo-
geniture, except among the Brandenburg Hohenzollerns, always
a wise, decisive, thrifty and growing race, who had the fine talent
of “annihilating rubbish,' was not yet known in those countries.
Johann Frederick felt, most likely, that he, for one, in this aspect
of the stars, was not founding kingdoms | But indeed it was not
he, it was his successors, his grandson and great-grandson chiefly,
that made these multiplex divisions and confusions on the face of
the German mother-earth, and perplexed the human soul with this
inextricable wilderness of little dukes. From him, however, they
do all descend; this let the reader know, and let it be some slight
* De Wette: Lebens-Geschichte der Herzoge zu Sachsen (Weimar, 1770), i. 39.
THE PRINZENIRAUB. 355
satisfaction to him to have got a historical double-girth tied round
them in that manner, and see Two compact Bundles made of
them, in the mean while.
Moritz, the new Elector, did not last long. Shortly after Jo-
hann Frederick got home to Weimar, Moritz had already found
his death, in prosecution of that game begun by him. It is well
known he had no sooner made the Electorate sure to himself
than he too drew sword against the Kaiser; beat the Kaiser;
chased him into the Tyrol mountains; could have taken him
there, but—“I have no cage big enough to hold such a bird,” said
Moritz: so he let the Kaiser run; and made the Treaty of Passau
with him instead. Treaty of Passau (A.D. 1552), by which Johann
Frederick's liberty was brought about, for one thing, and many
liberties were stipulated for the Protestants; upon which Treaty
indeed Germany rested from its religious battles, of the blood-
shedding sort, and fought only by ink thenceforth, till the Thirty-
Years War came, and a new Treaty, that of Munster or Westpha-
lia (1648), had to succeed.
Shortly after Passau, Moritz, now on the Kaiser's side, and
clear for peace and submission to said treaty, drew-out against his
oldest comrade, Albert Hohenzollern of Anspach,-'Albert Alcibi-
ades' as they call him, that far-shining, too-impetuous Failure of
a Frederick the Great;-drew-out, I say, against this Alcibiades,
who would not accept the Treaty of Passau; beat Alcibiades in
the battle of Sievershausen, but lost his own life withal in it, no
more, either of fighting or diplomatising, needed from him;-and
thus, after only some six years of Electorship, slept with his fa-
thers, no Elector, but a clod of the valley.
- His younger brother succeeded; from whom, in a direct line,
come all the subsequent Saxon potentates; and the present King
of Saxony, with whom one has no acquaintance, nor much want
of any. All of them are nephews, so to speak, of Elector Moritz,
grand-nephews of Duke George the Dagger-bearded (“if it rained
Duke Georges'). Duke George is, as it were, the grand-uncle of
them all; as Albert, our little stolen boy for whom Kunz von Kau-
fungen once gathered bilberries, is father of him and of them all.
A goodly progeny, in point of numbers; and handsomely equipt
and decorated by a liberal world : most expensive people, in
general not admirable otherwise. Of which multifarious progeny
I will remember farther only one, or at most two; having no
esteem for them myself, nor wish to encumber anybody's innocent
memory with what perhaps deserves oblivion better, and at all
events is rapidly on the way to get it, with or without my sanction.
Here, however, is our third figure, August the Strong.
356 MISCELLANIES.
Frederick August, the big King of Poland, called by some of
his contemporaries August the Great, which epithet they had to
change for August der Starke, August the Physically Strong: this
August, of the three-hundred-and-fifty-four bastards, who was able
to break a horse-shoe with his hands, and who lived in this world
regardless of expense, he is the individual of this junior-Senior
Albertine Line, whom I wish to pause one moment upon : merely
with the remark, that if Moritz had any hand in making him the
phenomenon he was, Moritz may well be ashamed of his work.
More transcendent king of gluttonous flunkeys seldom trod this
lower earth. A miracle to his own century, to certain of the
flunkey species a quasi-celestial miracle, bright with diamonds,
with endless mistresses, regardless of expense, to other men a
prodigy, portent and quasi-infernal miracle, awakening insoluble
inquiries: Whence this, ye righteous gods, and above all, whither!
Poor devil, he was full of good humour too, and had the best of
stomachs. A man that had his own troubles withal. His miscel-
lany of mistresses, very pretty some of them, but fools all, would
have driven most men mad. You may discern dimly in the flunkey
histories, in babbling Pöllnitz and others, what a set they were;
what a time he must have had with their jealousies, their sick
vapours, megrims, angers and infatuations;–springing, on occa-
sion, out of bed in their shift, like wild-cats, at the throat of him,
fixing their mad claws in him, when he merely enters to ask, “How
do you do, mon chou?” Some of them, it is confidently said, were
his own children. The unspeakably unexemplary mortal
He got his skin well beaten, cow-hided, as we may say, by
Charles XII., the rough Swede, clad mostly in leather. He was
coaxed and driven-about by Peter the Great, as Irish post-horses
are, long miles, with a bundle of hay, never to be attained, stuck
upon the pole of the coach. He reduced himself to utter bank-
ruptcy. He had got the crown of Poland by pretending to adopt
Papistry, the apostate, and even pseudo-apostate; and we may
say he has made Protestant Saxony, and his own House first of
all, Spiritually bankrupt ever since. He died at last, at Warsaw
(year 1788), of an ‘old man's foot;' highly composed, eupeptic to
the last; busy in scheming-out a partition of Poland,-a thing
more than once in men's heads, but not to be completed just yet.
Adieu to him forever and a day. -
One of his bastards was Rutowsky, long conspicuous in poor
Saxony as their chief military man; whom the Prussians beat at
Kesselsdorf–who was often beaten; whom Frederick the Great
at last shut-up in Pirna. Another was the Chevalier de Saae, also
| Pöllnitz: La Saze Galante ; Mémoires et Lettres, &c.
THE PRINZE NIRAUB. 357
a kind of general, good for very little. But by far the notablest
was he of Aurora von Königsmark's producing, whom they called
Comte de Saare in his own country, and who afterwards in France
became Maréchal de Saare; a man who made much noise in the
world for a time. Of him also let us say an anecdotic word. Ba-
ron d'Espagnac and the biographers had long been uncertain about
the date of his birth, date and place alike dubious. For whose
sake, here at length, after a century of searching, is the extract
from the baptismal register, found by an inquiring man. Poor
Aurora, it appears, had been sent to the Harz Mountains, in the
still autumn, in her interesting situation; lodges in the ancient
highland town of Goslar, anonymously, very privately; and this
is what the books of the old Marktkirche (Market-Church) in that
remote little place still bear:
“Den acht-und-zwenzigsten October'—But we must translate: ‘The
“twenty-eighth of October, in the year Sixteen-hundred and ninety-
“six, in the evening, between seven and eight o'clock, there was
‘born, by the high Lady (von der wornehmen Frau) who lodges in
* R. Heinrich Christoph Winkel's house, a Son; which Son, on
‘the 30th ejusdem, was in the evening baptised, in M. S. Alb's
‘house, and, by the name Mauritius, incorporated to the Lord
“Jesus (dem Herrn Jesu einverleibt). Godfathers were Herr Dr.
‘Trumph, R. N. Dusings and R. Heinrich Christoph Winkel.”
Which ought to settle that small matter, at least.
On the authority of Baron d'Espagnac, I mention one other
thing of this Mauritius, or Moritz, Maréchal de Saxe; who, like
his father, was an immensely strong man. Walking once in the
streets of London, he came into collision with a scavenger, had
words with the scavenger, who perhaps had splashed him with his
mud-shovel, or the like. Scavenger would make no apology; will-
ing to try a round of boxing instead. Moritz grasps him Sud-
denly by the back of the breeches; whirls him aloft, in horizontal
position; pitches him into his own mudcart, and walks on.” A
man of much physical strength, till his wild ways wasted it all.
He was tall of stature, had black circular eyebrows, black bright
eyes, brightness partly intellectual, partly animal,—oftenest with
a smile in them. Undoubtedly a man of unbounded dissoluteness;
of much energy, loose native ingenuity; and the worst speller pro-
bably ever known. Take this one specimen, the shortest I have,
not otherwise the best; specimen achieved, when there had a pro-
posal risen in the obsequious Académie Française to elect this
Maréchal a member. The Maréchal had the sense to decline. Ils
Cramer: Aurora von Königsmark (Leipzig, 1836), i. 126.
* Espagnac: Vie du Maréchal de Saze (ii. 274, of the German Translation).
358 MISCELLANIES.
veule me fere de la Cadémie, writes he; sela miret com une bage a un
chas; meaning probably, Ils veulent me faire de l'Académie; cela
n'iroit comme une bague d un chat: “They would have me in the
Academy; it would suit me as a ring would a cat,'—or say, a pair
of breeches a cock. Probably he had much skill in war; I cannot
judge : his victories were very pretty; but it is to be remembered,
he gained them all over the Duke of Cumberland; who was beaten
by everybody that tried, and never beat anything, except once
some starved Highland peasants at Culloden.
To resume and conclude. August the Physically Strong, be it
known in brief then, is great-grandson of an Elector called Johann
Georg I., who behaved very ill in the Thirty-Years War; now join-
ing with the great Gustavus, now deserting him; and seeking
merely, in a poor tortuous way, little to the honour of German
Protestantism in that epoch, to save his own goods and skin;
wherein, too, he did not even succeed : August the Physically
Strong, and Pseudo-Papist apostate, is great-grandson of that poor
man; who again is grand-nephew of the worldly-wise Elector
Moritz, Passau-Treaty Moritz, questionable Protestant, question-
able friend and enemy of Charles W., with “No cage fit to hold so
big a bird,'—and is therefore also great-grand-nephew of Luther's
friend, “If it rained Duke Georges.’ To his generation there are
six from Duke George's, five from Elector Moritz's : that is the
genealogy. And if I add, that the son of August the Physically
Strong was he who got to be August III., King of Poland; spent
his time in smoking tobacco; and had Brühl for minister, Brühl
of the three-hundred and sixty-five suits of clothes, who brought
Frederick of Prussia and the Seven-Years War into his country,
and thereby, so to speak, quite broke the back of Saxony, I think
we may close our excerpts from the Albertine Line. Of the elder
or Ernestine Line, in its disintegrated state, I will hastily subjoin
yet a word, with the reader's leave, and then end.
ERNESTINE LINE (in the disintegrated state, or broken small).
Noble Johann Frederick, who lost the Electorate, and retired
to Weimar, nobler for his losses, is not to be particularly blamed
for splitting his territory into pieces, and founding that imbroglio
of little dukedoms, which run about, ever shifting, like a mass of
quicksilver cut into little separate pools and drops; distractive to
the human mind, in a geographical and in far deeper senses. The
case was not peculiar to Johann Frederick of the Ernestine Line;
but was common to all German dukes and lines. The pious
German mind grudges to lop anything away; holds by the palpa-
bly superfluous; and in general “cannot annihilate rubbish;'—
THE PRINZENRAUB, 359
that is its inborn fault. Law of primogeniture, for such small
Sovereignties and dukedoms, is hardly yet, as the general rule,
above a century old in that country; which, for sovereigns and
for citizens, much more than for geographers, was certainly a
strange state of matters
The Albertine Line, Electoral though it now was, made apa-
nages, subdivisions, unintelligible little dukes and dukeries of a
similar kind, though perhaps a little more charily: almost within
a century we can remember little sovereign dukes of that line.
A Duke of Weissenfels, for instance; foolish old gawk, whom Wil-
helmina Princess Royal recollects for his distracted notions,'—
which were well shaken-out of him by Wilhelmina's Brother after-
wards. Or again, contemporaneously, that other little Duke, what
was the title of him 2–who had built the biggest bassoon ever heard
of; thirty feet high, or so; and was seen playing on it from a
trap-ladder;”—poor soul, denied an employment in this world,
and obliged to fly to bassoons !
Then, too, a Duke of Merseburg,” who was dining solemnly,
when the “Old Dessauer” (Leopold of Anhalt-Dessau, conqueror
at Kesselsdorf afterwards, and a great rough Prussian son of Mars)
broke-in upon him, in a friendly manner, half-drunk, with half.
drunk grenadiers whom he had been reviewing; and reviewed and
paraded them again there within the sublime ducal dining-room
itself, and fired volleys there (to the ruin of mirrors and cut-glass);
and danced with the princesses, his officers and he, a princess
in your left-hand, a drawn sword in your right;-and drank and
uproared, in a Titanic manner, for about eight hours; making a
sorcerer's sabbath of the poor duke's solemn dinner:* Sachsen-
Weissenfels, Sachsen-Merseburg, Sachsen-Zeitz:—there were many
little dukes of the Albertine Line, too, but happily they are now
all dead childless; and their apanages have fallen home to the
general mass, which does not henceforth make subdivisions of
itself. The Ernestine Line was but like the Albertine, and like all
its neighbours, in that respect.
So, too, it would be cruel to say of these Ernestine little Dukes
that they have no history; though it must be owned, in the modern
state of the world, they are ever more, and have long been, almost
in the impossibility of having any. To build big bassoons, and
play on them from trap-ladders; to do hunting, build opera-houses,
give court-shows: what else, if they do not care to serve in foreign
Mémoires de Wilhelmine de Prusse, Margrave de Bareith.
* Pöllnitz: Mémoires et Lettres.
* Same as the Bassoon Duke.—ED.
* Des weltberiihmten Fürstens Leopold, von Anhalt-Dessaw Leben, &c. (Leip-
zig, 1742), pp. 108-112.
860 MISCELLANIES.
armies, is well possible for them? It is a fatal position; and they
really ought to be delivered from it. Perhaps then they might do
better. Nay, perhaps already here and there they have more his-
tory than we are all aware of. The late Duke of Weimar was
beneficent to men-of-letters; had the altogether essential merit,
too, which is a very singular one, of finding out, for that object,
the real men-of letters instead of the counterfeit. A Duke of Sach-
sen-Gotha, of earlier date, went into the Grumbach'sche Handel (Sad
‘ Grumbach Brabble, consisting of wildjustice in high quarters,
by assassination or sudden homicide in the street, with conse-
quences; of all which the English reader happily knows nothing),
—went into it bravely, if rashly, in generous pity for Grumbach,
in high hope for himself withal; and got thrown into jail for life,
poor Duke Where also his Wife attended him, like a brave true
woman, “for twenty years.”—On the whole, I rather think they
would still gladly have histories if they could ; and am willing to
regret that brave men and princes, descended presumably from
Witekind and the gods, certainly from John the Steadfast and John
Frederick the Magnanimous, should be reduced to stand inert in
the whirling arena of the world in that manner, swathed in old
wrappages and packthread meshes, into inability to move; watch-
ing sadly the Centuries with their stormful opulences rush past
you, Century after Century in vainl
But it is better we should close. Of the Ernestine Line, in its
disintegrated state, let us mention only two names, in the briefest
manner, who are not quite without significance to men and English-
men; and therewith really end. The first is Bernhard of Weimar;
champion of Elizabeth Stuart, Ex-queen of Bohemia; famed cap-
tain in the Thirty-Years War; a really notable man. Whose Life
Goethe once thought of writing ; but prudently (right prudently,
as I can now see) drew out of it, and wrote nothing. Not so easy
to dig-out a Hero from the mountainous owl-droppings, deaden-
ing to the human nostril, which moulder in Record Offices and
Public Libraries; patrolled-over by mere irrational monsters, of
the gryphon and vulture and chimaera species 1 Easier, a good
deal, to versify the Ideal a little, and stick-by ballads and the
legitimate drama. Bernhard was Johann Frederick the Magnani-
mous's great-grandson : that is his genealogy; great-grandson of
little stolen Ernst's grandson, He began in those Bohemian
Campaigns (1621), a young lad of seventeen ; Rittmeister to one of
his elder Brothers; some three of whom, in various capacities,
fought in the Protestant wars of their time. Very ardent Pro-
testants, they and he ; men of devout mind withal; as generally
their whole Line, from Johann Frederick the Magnanimous down-
THE PRINZENRAUB. 361
wards, were distinguished by being. He had risen to be a famed
captain, while still young; and, under and after the great Gustavus,
he did exploits to make the whole world know him. He ‘was in
two-and-thirty battles;' gained, or helped to gain, almost all of
them; but unfortunately lost that of Nördlingen, which, next to
Lützen, was the most important of all. He had taken Breisach
(in the Upper-Rhine country), thought to be inexpugnable; and
was just in sight of immense ulterior achievements and advance-
ments, when he died suddenly (1639), still only in his thirty-fifth
year. The Richelieu French poisoned him (so ran and runs the
rumour); at least he died conveniently for Richelieu, for Germany
most inconveniently; and was in truth a mighty kind of man;
distinguished much from the imbroglio of little Dukes: “grand-
son's great-grandson,’ as I said, ‘of’ Or, alas, is it hopeless to
charge a modern reader's memory even with Bernhard
Another individual of the Ernestine Line, surely notable to
Englishmen, and much to be distinguished amid that imbroglio
of little Dukes, is the ‘Prinz ALBRECHT Franz August Karl Emanuel
von Sachsen-Coburg-Gotha,” whom we call, in briefer English, Prince
Albert of Saxe-Coburg; actual Prince Consort of these happy
realms. He also is a late, very late, grandson of that little stolen
Ernst. Concerning whom both English History and English Pro-
phecy might say something, but not conveniently in this place.
By the generality of thinking Englishmen he is regarded as a
man of solid sense and worth, seemingly of superior talent, placed
in circumstances beyond measure singular. Very complicated
circumstances; and which do not promise to grow less so, but
the contrary. For the Horologe of Time goes inexorably on ; and
the Sick Ages ripen (with terrible rapidity at present) towards
Who will tell us what? The human wisdom of this Prince, what-
ever share of it he has, may one day be unspeakably important to
mankind —But enough, enough. We will here subjoin his Pedi-
gree at least; which is a very innocent Document, riddled from
the big Historical cinderheaps, and may be comfortable to some
persons:
‘Ernst the Pious, Duke of Sachsen-Gotha (1601–1675), was one of
Bernhard of Weimar's elder brothers; great-grandson of Johann Frederick
the Magnanimous, who lost the Electorate. Had been a soldier in his
youth; succeeded to Gotha and the main part of the Territories; and
much distinguished himself there. A patron of learning, among other
good things; set Seckendorf on compiling the History of the Reformation.
To all appearance, an excellent, prudent and really pious Governor of men.
He left seven sons; who at first lived together at Gotha, and ‘governed
conjointly;' but at length divided the Territories; Frederick the eldest
taking Gotha, where various other Fredericks succeeded him, and the line
did not die out till 1824. The other six brothers likewise all founded
362 MISCELLANIES.
‘Lines, Coburg, Meinungen, Römhild, Eisenberg, Hildburghausen, Saal-
feld, most of which soon died out; but it is only the youngest brother, he
of Saalfeld with his Line, that concerns us here.
1° JoHANN ERNST (1658–1729), youngest son of Ernst the Pious;
got Saalfeld for his portion. The then Coburg Line died out in 1678,
upon which arose great arguings as to who should inherit; arguings, bar-
gainings; and, between Meinungen and Saalfeld especially, a lawsuit in
the Reichshofrath (Imperial Aulic Council, as we call it), which seemed as
if it would never end. At length, in 1735, Saalfeld, “after two-hundred
and six Conclusa (Decrees) in its favour, carried the point over Meinungen;
got possession of ‘Coburg Town, and nearly all the Territory,’ and holds
it ever since. Johann Ernst was dead in the interim; but had left his
SOn,
2° FRANz JosLAs (born 1697) Duke of Sachsen-Saalfeld,—who, as we
see, in 1735, after these ‘206 Decrees, got Coburg too, and adopted that
town as his Residenz; Duke of Sachsen-Coburg-Saalfeld thenceforth. A
younger brother of this Franz Josias was the “Cobourg.” (Austrian General)
thrice-famous in the French Newspapers of 1792–94, if now forgotten.
His (Franz Josias's) son and successor was
3° ERNST FRIEDRICH (1724–1800);-and his
40 FRANZ FRIEDRICH ANToN (1750–1806). He left three daughters,
one of whom became Duchess of Kent, and mother of Queen Victoria:
likewise three sons; the youngest of whom is Leopold, now King of the
Belgians; and the eldest of whom was
5° ERNST ANTon KARL LUDwig (1784–1844); to whom Sachsen-Gotha
fell in 1824;-whose elder son is now reigning Duke of Sachsen-Coburg-
Saalfeld-Gotha (chief Residence Gotha); and whose younger is
6° PRINCE ALBERT, whom we know.”
So that the young gentleman who will one day (it is hoped,
but not till after many years) be King of England, is visibly, as
we count, Thirteenth in direct descent from that little boy Ernst
whom Kunz von Kaufungen stole. Ernst's generation and Twelve
others have blossomed-out and grown big, and have faded and
been blown away; and in these 400 years, since Kunz did his
feat, we have arrived so far. And that is the last ‘pearl, or odd
button,' I will string on that Transaction.
*** Here is a Letter since received, which may be worth
printing:
‘Royal Society, Somerset House, 6th August 1856.
* DEAR SIR,--I am a stranger to you, though not to your works; and
would not intrude on your time and attention, were it not that the subject
on which I write may perhaps procure me your indulgence.
‘I have taken a walk into Bohemia, and visited, on the way, some of the
places identified with the Prinzenraub. The old town of Altenburg is pic-
turesque in situation, architecture and the costume of its Wendish popu-
lation. In the castle, which stands on a hill resembling that at Edinburgh,
1 Hübner, tab. 163; GErtel, tab. 70; Michaelis, Chur- und Fürstlichen
Böuser in Tewtschland, i. 511-525.
THE PRINZENRAUB. 363
are to be seen the dresses worn by the young Princes at the time of their
kidnapping, ancient weapons, armour, &c., old chambers and modern halls,
and a walled-up window marking the situation of the one through which
Kunz carried-off his princely booty.
“The estate which was given to the Driller is situate about half-an-
hour's walk to the east of Zwickau; a town that recalls Luther to memory.
He (Luther) often ascended the tall church-tower to enjoy the prospect
around; and there remains on the top an old clumsy table said to have
been his.
“The Driller family is not extinct. Three male representatives are
living at Freyberg and other places in Saxony; but the estate has been out
of their possession for many years. It lies pleasantly on one side of a
narrow glen, and is now the site of a large brewery–Driller Bierbrauerei—
famed in all the country round for the excellence of its beer. By experi-
ence acceptably gathered on the spot on a hot afternoon, I can testify that
the Driller beer is equal to its reputation. Hence there is something
besides a patriotic sentiment to attract customers to the shady gardens
and spacious guest-chambers of the brewery; and to justify the writing
over the entrance,—Dulcius ea: ipso fonte bibuntur aqua.
“In one of the rooms I saw a full-length painting of the Driller; a
sturdy, resolute-looking fellow, with ample black beard, grasping his pole,
and supporting the young Prince whom he has just rescued. Also two
miniatures; one inscribed Georg Schmidt od. Triller; the other, a likeness
of his Wife, a rustic dame of quiet expression, with gray eyes and arched
eyebrows. Also a portrait of Kunz, very different from what I expected.
He bears a striking resemblance to our portraits of Sir Philip Sidney;
with crisp curly hair, ample forehead, well-opened eye, pointed beard, and
wearing a gold chain. Also a thin quarto containing a history of the
Prinzenraub, with portraits, and engravings of the incidents: The stealing
of the princes from the castle—the rescue—the joyful return—the be-
heading of Kunz, &c. All these things help to keep-up a little enthusiasm
among the Saxons, and perhaps encourage trade.
‘On the 8th of July of last year (1855), a festival was held to celebrate
the four-hundredth anniversary of the Prinzenraub. A long procession,
headed by Herr Ebert, the chief proprietor (since deceased), walked from
Zwickau to the brewery, passing under two triumphal-arches on the way.
The leader was followed by a long file of coalers, by friends on foot and in
carriages, and bands of music in wagons; altogether about eight-hundred
persons. They kept-up the celebration with right good will, and drank,
so the Braumeister told me, a hundred eimers of beer.
“A similar festival was held on the same day at Altenburg, Hartenstein,
Grünhain, attended by people from all the neighbouring villages, when
not a few paid a visit to the Prinzenhöhle, the cave in which Prince
Ernst was hidden.
* I did not see the monastery of Ebersdorf; but I was informed by
Sundry persons that the Driller's coat is still to be seen there.
“I remain, yours with much respect,
‘WALTER WHITE.
‘THOMAS CARLYLE, ESQ.”
SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.
—º-
THE DIAM ON D NEC KLACE.
CHAP. I. The Age of Romance.
THE Age of Romance can never cease: All Life romantic, and even mira-
culous. (p. 1)-How few men have the smallest turn for thinking / “Dig-
nity’ and deadness of History: Stifling influence of Respectability. No
age ever seemed romantic to itself. Perennial Romance: The lordliest
Real-Phantasmagoria, which men name Being. What fiction can be so
wonderful, as the thing that is 2 The Romance of the Diamond Necklace
no foolish brainweb, but actually ‘spirit-woven' in the Loom of Time. (2).
CHAP. II. The Necklace is made.
Last infirmity of M. Boehmer's mind: The King's Jeweller would fain
be maker of the Queen of Jewels. Difference between making and agglo-
merating: The various Histories of those several Diamonds: What few
things are made by man. A Necklace, fit only for the Sultana of the
World. (p. 6).
CHAP. III. The Necklace cannot be sold.
Miscalculating Boehmer: The Necklace intended for the neck of Du
Barry; but her foul day is now over. Many praises, but no purchaser.
Loveliest Marie-Antoinette, every inch a Queen. The Age of Chivalry
gone, and that of Bankruptcy is come. (p. 10).
CHAP. IV. Affinities: the Two Fived-ideas.
A man's little Work lies not isolated, stranded; but is caught-up by the
boundless Whirl of Things, and carried—who shall say whither? Prince
Louis de Rohan; a nameless Mass of delirious Incoherences, held-in a
little by conventional Politesse. These are thy gods, O France! Sleek
Abbé Georgel, a model Jesuit, and Prince de Rohan's nursing-mother.
Embassy to Vienna: Disfavour of Maria Theresa and of the fair Antoinette.
(p. 11).-Hideous death of King Louis the Well-beloved. Rohan returns
from Vienna; and the young Queen refuses to see him. Teetotum-terrors
of life at Court. His Eminence's blank despair, and desperate struggle to
clutch the favour he has lost. Give the wisest of us a “fixed-idea,' and
what can his wisdom help him (16).-Will not her Majesty buy poor
Boehmer's Necklace? and oh, will she not smile once more on poor disso-
lute, distracted Rohan 2 The beautiful clear-hearted Queen, alas, beset by
two Monomaniacs; whose “fixed-ideas' may one day meet. (20).
866 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.
CHAP. W. The Artist.
Jeanne de Saint-Remi, a brisk little nondescript Scion-of-Royalty: Her
parentage and hungry prospects. Her singularly undecipherable charac-
ter. Conscience not essential to every character named human. A Spark
of vehement Life, not developed into Will of any kind, only into Desires
of many kinds: Glibness, shiftiness and untamability. (p. 20).-Kittenness,
not yet hardened into cathood. Marries M. de Lamotte, and dubs him
Count. Hard shifts for a living. Visits his Eminence Prince Louis de
Rohan; his monomaniac folly now under Cagliostro's management. The
glance of hungry genius. (24).
CHAP. VI. Will the Two Fiaced-ideas meet 2
The poor Countess de Lamotte's watergruel rations; and desperate
tackings and manoeuvrings within wind of Court. Eminence Rohan ar-
rives thitherward, driven by his fixed-idea. Idle gossiping and tattling
concerning Boehmer and his Necklace. In some moment of inspiration,
a question rises on our brave Lamotte: If not a great Divine Idea, then a
great Diabolic one. How Thought rules the world! (p. 25).-A Female
Dramatist worth thinking of Could Madame de Lamotte have written a
Hamlet f Poor Eminence Rohan in a Prospero's-grotto of Cagliostro ma-
gic; led on by our sprightly Countess's soft-warbling deceitful blandish-
ments. (27).
CHAP. VII. Marie-Antoinette.
The Countess plays upon the credulity of his Eminence: Strange mes-
Sages for and from the innocent, unconscious Queen. Frankhearted Marie-
Antoinette; beautiful Highborn, so foully hurled low ! The “Sanctuary of
Sorrow' for all the wretched: That wild-yelling World, and all its madness,
will one day lie dumb behind thee! (p. 29).
CHAP. VIII. The Two Fiaced-ideas will unite.
Further dexterities of the glib-tongued Lamotte: How she managed
with Cagliostro. Boehmer is made to hear (by accident) of her new-found
favour with the Queen; and believes it. Drowning men catch at straws,
and hungry blacklegs stick at nothing. (p. 31).-Can her Majesty be per-
suaded to buy the Necklace 2 Will her Majesty deign to accept a present
so worthy of her?—Walk warily, Countess de Lamotte, with nerve of iron,
but on shoes of felt! (33).
CHAP. IX. Park of Versailles.
Ineffable expectancy stirs-up his Eminence's soul: “This night the
Queen herself will meet thee! Sleep rules this Hemisphere of the
World;—rather curious to consider. Darkness and magical delusions:
The Countess's successful dramaturgy. Ixion de Rohan, and the foul
Centaurs he begat. (p. 34).
SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. 367
CHAP. X. Behind the Scenes.
The Lamotte all-conquering talent for intrigue. The Demoiselle
d'Oliva; unfortunate Queen's Similitude, and unconscious tool of skilful
knavery. (p. 37).
CHAP. XI. The Necklace is sold.
A pause: The two fixed-ideas have felt each other, and are rapidly co-
alescing. His Eminence will buy the Necklace, on her Majesty's account.
O Dame de Lamotte —“I? Who saw me in it 2' (p. 39). —Bohan and
Boehmer in earnest business conference: A forged Royal approval: Se-
crecy as of Death. (41).
CHAP. XII. The Necklace vanishes.
The bargain concluded; his Eminence the proud possessor of the
Diamond Necklace. Again the scene changes; and he has forwarded it—
whither he little dreams. (p. 43).
CHAP. XIII. Scene Third : by Dame de Lamotte.
Cagliostro, with his greasy prophetic bulldog face. Countess de La-
motte and his Eminence in the Versailles Gallery. Through that long
Gallery, what Figures have passed, and vanished . The Queen now
passes; and graciously looks this way, according to her habit: Dame de
Lamotte looks on, and dextrously pilfers the royal glances. Eminence de
Rohan's helpless, bottomless, beatific folly. (p. 44).
CHAP. XIV. The Necklace cannot be paid.
The Countess's Dramaturgic labours terminate. How strangely in life
the Play goes on, even when the Mover has left it ! No Act of man can
ever die. His Eminence finds himself no nearer his expected goal: Un-
speakable perturbations of soul and body. (p. 46).-Blacklegs in full fea-
ther: Rascaldom has no strong-box. Dame de Lamotte gaily stands the
brunt of the threatening Earthquake: The farthest in the world from a
brave woman. (48).-Gloomy weather-symptoms for his Eminence: A
thunder-clap (per Countess de Lamotte); and mud-explosion beyond
parallel. (49).
CHAP. XV. Scene Fourth : by Destiny.
Assumption-day at Versailles;–a thing they call worshiping God to
enact: All Noble France, waiting only the signal to begin worshiping.
Eminence de Rohan chief-actor in the imposing scene. Arrestment in the
King's name: There will be no Assumption-service this day. The Bas-
tille opens its iron bosom to all the actors in the Diamond-drama. (p. 50).
CHAP. XVI. Missa est.
The extraordinary “Necklace Trial, an astonishment and scandal to the
whole world. Prophetic Discourse by Count Arch-Quack Cagliostro:—
368 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.
Universal Empire of Scoundrelism: Truth wedded to Sham gives birth to
Respectability. The old Christian whim, of some sacred covenant with an
actual, living and ruling God. Scoundrel Worship and Philosophy: Deep
significance of the Gallows. Hideous fate of Dame de Lamotte. Unfor-
tunate foully-slandered Queen: Her eyes red with their first tears of pure
bitterness. The Empire of Imposture in flames.—This strange, many-
tinted Business, like a little cloud from which wise men boded Earth-
quakes. (p. 51). •
MIRABEAU.
The Life of an Original Man, the highest fact our world witnesses:
Such a Man a problem, not only to others, but to himself. Woe to him
who has no court of appeal against the world's judgmentſ (p. 61).-In
such matter the world cannot be right, till after it has learnt the lesson the
New Man brings. The world's wealth and creative strength consists solely
in its Original Men, and what they do for it. Before we can have Morality
and critical canons, we must have Heroes and their heroic performances.
(62).-He were a sanguine seeker who should look to the French Revolu-
tion for creators or exemplars of morality. A greater work never done in
the world's history by men so small. Effervescence, and heroic despera-
tion: Mahomet Robespierre's scraggiest of prophetic discourses: Exagger-
ated commonplace, and triviality run rabid. A vain, cramped, atrabiliar
Formula of a man, for nearly two years Autocrat of France. (64).-And yet
the French Revolution did disclose three original men. Napoleon Bona-
parte in a fair way of being rightly appreciated: His gospel, “The tools to
him that can handle them,” our ultimate Political Evangel. Trimmers,
moderates, plausible persons; hateful to God, and to the Enemies of God.
If Bonaparte were the ‘armed Soldier of Democracy, then was Danton the
Enfant Perdu, and unenlisted Titan of Democracy: An Earthborn, yet
honestly born of Earth: Wild, all-daring ‘Mirabeau of the Sansculottes:’
What to him were whole shoals of immaculate Pharisees and Respectabi-
lities? ‘Let my name be blighted, then; so the Cause be glorious, and
have victory !” Once cleared, why should not this name too have signifi-
cance for men? (65).-Mirabeau, by far the best-gifted of this questionable
trio : Of him too it is interesting to notice the progressive dawning, out of
darkness into light. Difference between an Original Man and a parlia-
mentary mill. Insufficiency of Mirabeau's Biographers. Dumont's Souve-
mirs sur Mirabeau, not without faithfulness and picturesque clearness; the
great Mirabeau being a thing set in motion mainly by him Lucas Mon-
tigny's biographical work, a monstrous heap of shot-rubbish, containing
and hiding much valuable matter. By one means and another some sketch
of Mirabeau himself may be brought to light. (68).-His Father a crabbed,
sulphurous, choleric old—Friend of Men. The Mirabeaus cast-out of Flor-
ence at the time Dante was a boy: A notable kindred; as the kindred
SUMIMARY OF CONTENTS. 369
and fathers of most notable men are. A family totally exempt from block-
heads, but a little liable to blackguards. One of them vowed to chain
two mountains together; and did it. They get firm footing in Marseilles
as trading nobles: Talent for choosing wives. Uncouth courtiership at
Versailles CEil - de-Boeuf. Jean Antoine, afterwards named Silverstock:
Haughtier, juster, more choleric man need not be sought-for. Battle of
Casano: The Mirabeau family marrowly escapes extinction. World-wide
influence of the veriest trifles: Inscrutability of genetic history. (72).-In
the whole kindred, no stranger figure than the ‘Friend of Men,” Mirabeau's
father: Strong, tough as an oak-root, and as gnarled and unwedgeable.
Really a most notable, questionable, hateable, lovable old Marquis. A Ped-
ant, but under most interesting new circumstances. Nobility in France
based no longer on heroic nobleness of conduct and effort; but on syco-
phancy, formality, adroitness: How shall the proudest of the Mirabeaus
fall prostrate before a Pompadour 2 Literary powers, characteristics and
shortcomings: Not through the press is there any progress towards pre-
miership. The world a mad imbroglio, which no Friend of Men can set
right. Domestic rebellions and tribulations: Lawsuits between man and
wife: Fifty-four Lettres de Cachet, for the use of a single Marquis. Blessed
old Marquis, or else accursed; there is stuff in thee; and stuff is stuff, were
it never so crabbed | His Brother, Bailli de Mirabeau, and their frank bro-
therly love. (78).-Gabriel Honoré Mirabeau, born 9th March 1749: A very
Hercules; as if in this man-child Destiny had swept together all the wild-
messes and strengths of his lineage. Mirabeau, Goethe, Burns: Could the
well-born of the world be always rightly bred, and rightly welcomed, what
a world it might be | Mirabeau's rough, vehement, genial childhood: His
father's pedantic interference: No lion's-whelp or young Mirabeau will go
like clockwork. What a task the poor paternal Marquis had : His troubled
motions about his own offspring. Young Mirabeau sent to boarding-school
in disgrace : Gains the goodwill of all who come near him. Sent to the
Army: The people of Saintes grew to like him amazingly: Quarrels with
his Colonel: Archer's daughter, and the tongue of the Old Serpent: Lettre
de Cachet and the Isle of Rhé. Happily there is fighting in Corsica, and
young Mirabeau gets leave to join it. His good uncle pronounces him
the best fellow on earth if well dealt with. Restored to his father's favour.
Visits Paris, and gains golden opinions. His father's notable criticisms:
In the name of all the gods what prodigy is this I have hatched ? A Swal-
lower of all Formulas: And has not France formulas enough to swallow,
and make away with ? (84).-Neither in the rural Man-of-business depart-
ment is he found wanting. Demon of the Impossible. Letter to his Un-
cle. Unfortunate Marriage: A young Alexander, with a very poor outlook.
Tries to make a fitting home for his young Wife. Jew-debts, and another
Lettre de Cachet. In Manosque, too, a man can live and read, and write an
Essay On DeSpotism. Fresh entanglements: His Wife's theoretic flirta-
tions: His generous efforts to make the twisted straight. A sudden quar-
rel beyond the limits of the royal Letter: Grim confinement in the Castle
WOL. IV. B B
370 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.
of If, at the grim old Marquis's order. O thou poor Mirabeau, thou art
getting really into war with Formulas, terriblest of all wars! A stolen
visit from his Brother, the Younger Mirabeau. The old Marquis's ear
deaf as that of Destiny. Poor Mirabeau; and poor shallow-hearted Wife:
The ill-assorted pair will never meet again. (94).-Mirabeau allowed to
walk in Pontarlier on parole. Old President Monnier, aged seventy-five ;
and his lovely, sad-heroic young wife. Mirabeau feels their danger, and
implores his own wife to come to him: She declines the invitation. Temp-
tation, and jealous entanglements: An explosion: Sophie Monnier, sharply
dealt with, avows and justifies her love for Mirabeau. Lettres de Cachet,
and Convent-walls: They both fly. The tough old Marquis gives chase:
They reach Holland, broken in character, though not yet in heart. Who
might be the first and greatest sinner in this bad business? Dear brethren
of Mankind, ‘endeavour to clear your minds of Cant!” Mirabeau cited be-
fore the Parlement of Besançon, and beheaded in Paper Effigy. Garret-
life in Holland: The wild man and beautiful sad-heroic woman lived their
romance of reality as well as might be expected. After eight months of
hard toils and trembling joys begirt with terror, they are discovered and
brought back. Mirabeau fast-locked in the Castle of Vincennes for forty-
two months: His wretched Sophie in some milder Convent confinement:
Their Correspondence. A last, untoward meeting : Poor Sophie's melan-
choly end. Mirabeau, again at liberty, storms before the Besançon Parle-
ment; and the Paper Effigy has its head stuck on again. The tough old
Marquis summons his children about him, and frankly declares himself in-
valided: They must now strive to govern themselves | Mirabeau’s Demos-
thenic fire and pathos: But he cannot get his wife's property. (101).-
Mirabeau’s life for the next five years creeps troublous, obscure : The
world's esteem, its codes and formulas, gone quite against him. In spite
of the world, a living strong man, who will not tumble prostrate. His
wandering, questionable mode of life: Incontinence, enormous, entirely in-
defensible: In audacity, in recklessness, not likely to be wanting. Mira-
beau as a writer and speaker: Instead of tropes and declamatory fervid
feeling, a totally unornamented force and massiveness, conviction striv-
ing to convince: The primary character, sincerity and insight. Nicknames
that are worth whole treatises. (109).-Convocation of the States-General.
Need we ask whether Mirabeau bestirs himself now 2 One strong dead-lift
pull, thou Titan, and perhaps thou carriest it! How Mirabeau wrestled
and strove, under such auspices: His flinging-up of the handful of dust.
Voluntary guard of a hundred men : Explosions of rejoicing musketry:
Chosen deputy for two places. For this Mirabeau, too, the career at last
opens: Forty long stern years; and now, Hyperion-like, he has scaled the
mountain-tops: What a scene, and new kingdom, lies before him O Son
of Adam | Son of Lucifer! the thing thou wantest is equilibrium,_rest or
peace. (113).—Madame de Staël's account of Mirabeau in the procession of
Deputies. Seen visibly to have saved, as with his own force, the existence
of the Constituent Assembly: Alone of all these Twelve-hundred, there is
SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. 371
in him the faculty of a King. The brave old Marquis lived to see his son's
victory; and rejoiced in it. Death, amid the mourning of a people. Im-
perfection of human characters; and difficulty of seeing them as they are
and were. Mirabeau also was made by the Upper Powers; in their wis-
dom, not in our wisdom, was he so made, and so marred. (115).
PARLIAMENTARY HISTORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
The French Revolution, the grand event of these modern ages. (p. 119).
—Innumerable Histories, and attempts to picture it. Thiers's History,
with its superficial air of order and candour, inwardly waste, inorganic, in-
correct. Mignet's, although utterly prosaic, a much more honestly-written
book: His jingling dance of algebraical X's, and Kalmuck rotary-calabash.
Only some three publications, hitherto, really worth reading on the matter.
(120).-The Histoire Parlementaire, a valuable and faithful collection of
facts and documents. Account of old Foulon's miserable end. Camille
Desmoulins, a light harmless creature, ‘born to write verses;' but whom
Destiny directed to overthrow Bastilles. The French Palais Royal, and
the Roman Forum : White and black cockades: Insurrection of Women.
(123).-The Jacobins' Club, in its early days of rose-pink and moral-sub-
lime: In some few months—the September Massacre: Like some Ezekiel
Vision become real, does Scene after Scene disclose itself. The French
Revolution, “an attempt to realise Christianity,” and put it fairly into action
in our world: For the love of Heaven, Messieurs, “humez vos formulé8,'
and look! (130).
SIR. WALTER SCOTT.
Instinctive tendency in men to look at any man who has become distin-
guished. (p. 135).-Sir Walter Scott's unparalleled popularity. Mr. Lock-
hart's Life, in Seven Volumes: Essentials of a real Biography. Necessity
for paying literary men by the quantity they do not write: Not what stands
above ground, but what lies unseen under it, determines the value. Femi-
more Cooper, and what lay in him to have done. When the Devil may
fairly be considered conquered. Mr. Lockhart's work an honest, careful
compilation: Foolishly blamed for being too communicative. Delicate,
decent, empty English Biography; bless its mealy mouth ! (137).-No
extent of popularity can make a man great : The stupidity of men, espe-
cially congregated in masses, extreme : Lope de Vega; Cervantes; Kotze-
bue. The real ungarnished Walter Scott, reduced to his own natural di-
mensions: Other stuff to the making of great men than can be detected
here. His highest gift, a love of picturesque, vigorous and graceful things.
The great Mystery of Existence had no greatness for him : His conquests
were for his own behoof mainly, over common market-labour. The test of
372 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.
every great, divine man, that he have fire in him to burn-up somewhat of
the sins of the world: Paltry, self-conscious, hollow imitations. A great
man ever possessed with an idea. Napoleon, not the superfinest of great
men, had an idea to start with: His idea, ‘The tools to him that can han-
dle them, the one true central idea to which everything practical is tend-
ing. Small vestige of any such fire, latent or luminous, in the inner-man
of Scott. Yet was he a right brave and strong man, according to his kind;
One of the healthiest of men. A healthy soul, the blessedest thing this
earth receives of Heaven. Walter Scott and William Cobbett, the two
healthiest men of their day: A cheerful sight, let the greatness be what it
will. Scott, very much the old fighting Borderer, in the new vesture of
the nineteenth century. Who knows how much slumbers in many men?
(143).--Till towards the age of thirty, Scott's life has nothing in it deci-
sively pointing towards distinction of any kind. His infancy and boyhood:
How Destiny was steadily preparing him for his work. Presbyterian Scot-
land: Brave old Knox, one of the truest of the true! A true Thought will
take many forms, in the Voices and the Work of a hardy, endeavouring,
considering Nation. The good in the Scotch national character, and the
not-so-good. (148).-Scott's early days pleasant to read of: A little fragment
of early Autobiography. His ‘Liddesdale Raids:’ Questionable doings;
whisky mounting beyond its level. A stout effectual man of thirty, full of
broad sagacity and good-humour. The uttered part of a man's life bears
but a small unknown proportion to the unuttered, unconscious part: The
greatest, by nature also the quietest. Fichte's consolation in this belief, amid
the infinite chattering and twittering of commonplace become ambitious.
Scott the temporary comforter of an age, at once destitute of faith and ter-
rified at scepticism: In his Romances the Past stood before us, not as dead
tradition, but as palpable presence: His brilliant, unprecedented success.
(151).-For a Sermon on Health, Scott should be the text: Money will
buy money's worth ; but ‘fame, what is it? How strange a Nemesis lurks
in the felicities of men | What sadder book than that Life of Byron, by
Moore? Poor Byron who really had much substance in him. Scott's
commercial enterprises: Somewhat too little of a fantast, this Vates of
ours! Scott and Shakspeare. If no skyborn messenger, heaven looking
through his eyes; neither is he a canting chimera, but a substantial ter-
restrial man. (156).-Considering the wretched vamping-up of old tatters
then in vogue, Scott's excellence may be called superior and supreme.
Goethe's Götz von Berlichingen, the remote spring whence this river of
Metrical Romance arose: Influence of Götz and Werter. Curious, how all
Europe is but like a set of parishes; participant of the selfsame influences,
from the Crusades and earlier Half-regretful lookings into the Past
gave place to Ernulphus' cursings of the Present. Scott among the first
to perceive the day of Metrical Chivalry-Romance was declining: Let it
shake-off its rhyme-fetters, then, and try a wider sweep. The Waverley
Novels: A certain anonymous mystery kept up, rather piquant to the pub-
lic. Scott's Letters, never without interest, yet seldom or never very in-
SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. 373
teresting. A dinner with the Prince-Regent: Another at James Ballan-
tyne's, on the birtheve of a Waverley Novel. A Sunday-morning ramble.
Abbotsford infested with tourists and wonder-hunters, what Schiller calls
‘flesh-flies: Captain Basil Hall compressed. The good Sir Walter bore
it as he could; and did not sweep his premises clear of them. His guests
not all of the bluebottle sort : A Boccaccio picture: Singular brute-attach-
ments to Sir Walter Scott: A wise little Blenheim cocker: Strange animal
and human resemblances. Alas, Scott, with all his health, became infected:
The inane racket must now be kept up, and rise ever higher. A black
speck in every soul. (160).-Had Literature no task but that of harmlessly
amusing, the Waverley Novels were the perfection of Literature. Differ-
ence in drawing a character, between a Scott, a Shakspeare and Goethe.
Not by quaintness of costume, can romance-heroes continue to interest
us; but simply and solely by being men. Incalculable service these
Historical Novels have rendered History. (173).-The extempore style of
writing. No great thing ever done without difficulty: The “soul's travail.’
Cease, O ready-writer, to brag openly of thyrapidity and facility Quality,
not quantity, the one thing needful. (177).-Scott's career, of writing im-
promptu novels to buy farms with, could not in any case have ended in
good. Alas, in one day his high-heaped money-wages became fairy-money
and nonentity. It was a hard trial: He met it proudly, bravely; like a
brave proud man of the world. The noble Warhorse that once laughed at
the shaking of the spear, how is he doomed to toil himself dead, dragging
ignoble wheels Extracts from his Diary: His Wife's death: Lonely,
aged, deprived of all; an impoverished, embarrassed man. Adieu, Sir
Walter, pride of all Scotchmen, farewell ! (180).
WARNHAGEN WON ENSE'S MEMOIRS.
Inexhaustible interest of Veracity and Memoir-writing : Warnhagen's
peculiar gifts and qualifications. (p. 185).-Glimpses of literary worthies;
Schleiermacher; Wolf; La Fontaine. A pleasant visit to Jean Paul, at
his little home in Baireuth. A Battle-piece: Napoleon at Wagram; and
Warnhagen's first experience of War. Varnhagen at the Court of Napo-
leon: What he saw ; and what he thought of the Emperor. The eye sees
only what it brings the means of seeing : Mystery and strength of origin-
ality. (189).-Varnhagen most of all rejoices in the memory of Rahel, his
deceased wife. A kind of spiritual queen in Germany : One of the first to
recognise the significance of Goethe. Her face with no pretensions to
beauty, yet lovable and attractive in a singular degree: Its characteristics.
Her Letters, of the subjective sort; an unprofitable kind of writing. Not
by looking at itself, but by ascertaining and ruling things out of itself, can
the mind become known. (198).-Her brilliant conversational powers. A
few short extracts from her Letters: Obscure glimpses of the wealth and
beauty of her loving woman's-soul. Her deathbed. That such a woman
374 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.
should have lived unknown, and as it were silent to the world, a suggestive
lesson to our time: Blessed are the humble, they that are not known.
“Seekest thou great things, seek them not;' live where thou art, wisely,
diligently. The Working of the good and brave, seen or unseen, endures
literally forever, and cannot die. (201).
PETITION ON THE COPYRIGHT BILL.
Assuring to each man the just recompense of his labour, the business
of all Legislation and Government among men. To have written a genu-
ine enduring book, not a sufficient reason for the forfeiture of the Law's
protection. Why then should extraneous persons be allowed to steal from
the poor book-writer the poor market-price of his labours? (p. 207).
ON THE SINKING OF THE WENGEUR.
The first public notice in England of Lord Howe's victory and the
destruction of the Vengeur. (p. 209).-The French Convention, in its Reign
of Terror, had to give its own version of the matter. Barrère reports it as
a glorious victory for France: At length, unable to conceal the defeat, he
pictures the manner of it as a spectacle for the gods. His Report trans-
lated, and published without comment, in the Morning Chronicle. The
French naturally proud of so heroic a feat. It finds its way into English
History. Extract from Carlyle’s ‘French Revolution: Letter from Rear-
Admiral Griffiths, denying altogether the correctness of the account. An-
other Letter, giving an emphatic statement of the facts, as witnessed by
himself. Letter from T. Carlyle to “a distinguished French friend: In
the interest of all whom it may concern, let the truth be known. (210).--
Letter from Rear-Admiral Griffiths to T. Carlyle, enclosing a Copy of Let-
ter from Rear-Admiral Renaudin, Captain of the sunken Vengeur. The
French Journals and official persons in no haste to canvass the awkward-
looking case. Response of one who did respond: Not a recantation of an
impudent amazing falsehood; but a faint whimper of admission that it is
probably false. Every windbag at length ripped; in the longrun no lie
can be successful. Of Nothing you can, with much lost labour, make only
—Nothing. (216).
BAILLIE THE COVENANTER.
Mr. Robert Baillie, a solid comfortable Parish Minister of Kilwinning:
How he became gradually heated to the welding-pitch, by the troubles of
the Seventeenth Century. (p. 223).-Happily his copious loquacity prompted
him to use pen as well as tongue without stint. A collection of his Let-
ters printed, and reprinted. Like the hasty, breathless, confused talk of a
SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. 375
man, looking face to face on that great whirl of things. Strange to con-
sider; it, the very phenomenon itself, does stand depictured there, had we
intellect enough to decipher it: With intellect enough, even ‘your constant
assured friend Charles Rex' were no longer an enigma and chimera. Duty
of every reader to read faithfully; and of every writer to write his wisest:
Shall stealing the money of a man be a crime; and stealing the time and
brains of innumerable men be none 2 Warm-hearted, canny, blundering,
babbling Baillieſ The daily tattle of men, as the air carried it two-hun-
dred years ago, becomes audible in these pages: With all its shortcomings,
perhaps no book of that period will better reward the trouble of reading.
(224).-His account of the Scotch Encampment on the Hill of Dunse:
King Charles looking on it with a spy-glass; though without much profit
to himself. A far-off look into the domesticities of Baillie: A journey to
London: All here weary of bishops: Strafford caged; Canterbury to be
pulled down; and everywhere a mighty drama going on. (233).-Impres-
sive passages in the Impeachment and Trial of Strafford. How different
from the dreary vacuity of ‘Philosophy teaching by experience, is the
living picture of the fact; such as even a Boswell or Baillie can give, if
they will honestly look! Our far-off Fathers, face to face; alive, and yet
not alive. On our horizon, too, loom now inevitabilities no less stern ;
one knows not sometimes, whether not very near at hand. (239).
DR. FRANCIA.
The South-American Revolution, and set of revolutions, a great com-
fused phenomenon; worthy of better knowledge than men yet have of it.
(p. 249).-Liberator Bolivar, a much-enduring and many-counselled man.
Of General San Martin, too, there is something to be said: His march
over the Andes into Chile; a feat worth looking at. Might not the Chile-
nos as well have taken him for their Napoleon? Don Ambrosio O'Higgins:
His industry and skill in road-making. O'Higgins the Second : Govern-
ing a rude business everywhere; but in South America of quite primitive
rudeness. Ecclesiastic Vampire-bats. An immense increase of soap-and-
water, the basis of all improvements in Chile. (250).-By far the notablest
of these South-American phenomena, Dr. Francia and his Dictatorship in
Paraguay. Nothing could well shock the constitutional mind like this
tawny-visaged, lean, inexorable Dr. Francia. Our chief source of infor-
mation about him, a little Book by Messrs. Rengger and Longchamp: An
endless merit in a man's knowing when to have done. The Messrs. Ro-
bertson, and their Francia's Reign of Terror and other books: Given a
cubic inch of Castile soap, to lather it up in water so as to fill a wine-
puncheon. How every idle volume flies abroad like idle thistle-down;
frightful to think of, were it not for reaphook and rake. In all human
likelihood this sanguinary tyrant of Paraguay did mean something, could
we in quietness ascertain What. (256).-Francia born about the year 1757;
376 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.
of Portuguese or French extraction. Intended for a priest. Subject to
the terriblest fits of hypochondria. Sent to the University of Cordova in
Tucuman. Lank sallow boys in the Tucuman and other high seminaries,
often dreadfully ill-dealt with, as times go: So much is unspeakable; and
a most strange Universe, this, to be born into Francia, arrived at man's
years, changes from Divinity to Law. Had doubtless gained some insight
into the veritable workings of the Universe: Endless heavy fodderings of
Jesuit-theology he did not take-in. French-Encyclopedic influences, and
Gospel according to Volney, Jean-Jacques and Company: An ill-fed,
ghastly-looking flame; but a needful, and even kind of sacred one. Fran-
cia perhaps the best and justest Advocate that ever took briefs in that dis-
tant Assumpcion City. The people of that profuse climate in careless
abundance, troubling themselves about few things: One art they seem to
have perfected, that of riding. Their lives, like empty capacious bottles,
calling to the Heavens and the earth, and to all Dr. Francias who may
pass that way. Francia a lonesome, down-looking man, apt to be solitary
even in the press of men: Passes everywhere for a man of veracity, punc-
tuality, of iron methodic rigour and rectitude. A Law-case; an unjust
judge discomforted. Francia's quarrel with his Father. A most barren
time: Not so much as a pair of Andalusian eyes, that can lasso him per-
manently. But now, far over the waters there have been Federations, Sans-
culottism : In the new Hemisphere, too, arise wild projects, armed gather-
ings, invasions and revolts. A new figure of existence is cut-out for the
Assumpcion Advocate. (264).-Not till a year after, did the Paraguenos,
by spontaneous movement resolve on a career of freedom. National Con-
gress: Papers “compiled chiefly out of Rollin's Ancient History.' Para-
guay Republic: Don Fulgencio Yegros, President; two Assessors; Fran-
cia, Secretary. Alas, these Guacho populations are greedy, superstitious,
vain, mendacious: We know for certain but of one man who would do
himself an injury, to do a just or true thing under that sun. Secretary
Francia flings-down his papers, and retires again into privacy: An acci-
dental meeting; description of the man, and of his library. The reign of
liberty becomes unendurable: A second Congress got together: Fulgencio
and Francia, joint Consuls. Next year, a third Congress; and Francia
gets himself declared Dictator. He never assembled any Congress more;
having stolen the constitutional palladiums, and got his wicked will! (274).
—A great improvement did, nevertheless, in all quarters forthwith show
itself: Every official in Paraguay had to bethink him, and begin actually
doing his work. The land had peace; a rabid dog-kennel wide as South
America raging round it, but kept-out as by lock-and-key. A Conspiracy;
to start with the massacre of Dr. Francia and others, whatever it might
close with : Francia not a man to be trifled-with in plots. It was in this
stern period he executed above forty persons. A visitation of locusts:
Two harvests in one season. (278).—Sauerteig's sunglances into the mat-
ter. No Reform, whether of an individual or a nation, can be effected
without stern suffering, stern working: Pity it cannot be done by “tremen-
SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. 377
dous cheers.' What they say about ‘love of power:' Love of ‘power’
to make flunkeys come and go for you! A true man must tend to be
king of his own world. This Paraguay got the one veracious man it had,
to take lease of it. Funeral Eulogium, by the Reverend Manuel Perez :
Life is sacred, thinks his Reverence; but there is something more sacred
still. Dictator Francia, a man whose worth and meaning are not soon
exhausted. His efforts to rebuild the City of Assumpcion. His desire to
open a trade with the English Nation,-foolishly supposed to be repre-
sented, and made accessible, in the House of Commons: Francia's unrea-
sonable detestation of a man who was not equal to his word. (281).-His
sore struggle with imaginary workmen, cleric and laic : In despair he
erected his ‘Workman's Gallows: Such an institution of society, adapted
to our European ways, everywhere pressingly desirable. O Guachos,
South-American and European, what a business is it, casting-out your
Seven Devils! (288).-Francia; as he looked and lived, managing that
thousandfold business for his Paraguenos, and keeping a sharp eye for
assassins. His treatment of M. Bonpland; of his old enemy Artigas:
His rumoured conduct to his dying Father. His interest in any kind of
intelligent human creature, when such by rarest chance could be fallen-in
with. So lived, so laboured Dictator Francia; and had no rest but in
Eternity. O Francia, though thou hadst to execute some forty persons, I
am not without some pity for thee! (290).
-º
AN ELECTION TO THE LONG PARLIAMENT.
How Pym, Hampden and others, rode about the country to promote the
election of their own faction. Our entire ignorance, but for this fact, how
that celebrated Long Parliament was got together. (p. 295). —Welcome
discovery of certain semi-official Documents, relative to the Election for
Suffolk. Sir Simonds D'Ewes, a most spotless man and High-Sheriff;
ambitious to be the very pink of Puritan magistrates: How shall any sha-
dow of Impartiality be suffered to rest on his clear-polished character 2–
Hence these Documents. General character of our Civil-War documents
and records: Comparative emphasis and potency of Sir Simonds' affidavits.
An old contemporary England at large, as it stood and lived on that ‘ex-
treme windy day, may dimly suggest itself. (297).-Samuel Duncon, Town-
constable, testifieth: — Unconsciously, How the Polling was managed in
those old days. Consciously, How the Opposition Candidate was magnani-
mously allowed every precedence and facility; and yet couldn't win: And,
How in the rage of their disappointment and ingratitude, his party scandal-
ously upbraided the immaculate High-Sheriff himself with injustice towards
them. The High-Sheriff's own Narrative of his admirable carriage, and
ill-requited magnanimity. (300).-Another case Sir Simonds had to clear-
up: Being High-Sheriff, he returned himself for Sudbury: In this too he
prospered, and sat for that Borough. A thin highflown character, by no
378 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.
means without his uses. Colonel Pride in the end had to purge him out,
with four or five score others. He died soon after ; leaving an unspotted
pedant character, and innumerable Manuscripts behind him. Some Ninety
and odd Volumes of his Papers in the British Museum. His Notes of the
Long Parliament, perhaps the most interesting of all the Manuscripts that
exist there. Our sorrowful Dryasdust Printing Societies; and what they
might do towards a real History of England. (311).
TWO-HUNDRED-AND-FIFTY YEARS AGO :
A FRAGMENT ABOUT DUET.S.
Duelling, one of the sincerities of Human Life, capable of taking many
forms. A background of wrath does lie in every man and creature: Dead-
liest rage, and tenderest love, different manifestations of the same radi-
cal fire whereof Life is made. The elaboration an immense matter |
(p. 315).
No. I. Holles of Haughton.
How John Holles married the fair Anne Stanhope, and so gave offence
to the Shrewsburys. High feud between the two houses; the very retain-
ers biting thumbs, and killing one another. John Holles and Gervase
Markham : “Markham, guard yourself better, or I shall spoil you!' Loose-
tongued, loose-living Gervase Markham could not guard himself; and got
“spoilt accordingly. (p. 316).
No. II. Croydon Races.
Scotch favourites of King James, and English jealousies. Scotch Max-
well, and his insolent sardonic humour: Fashionable Young England in
deadly emotion. How his Majesty laboured to keep peace. At the Croy-
don Races there arose sudden strife; and the hour looked really ominous:
Philip Herbert (beautiful young man), of the best blood in England,
switched over the head by an accursed Scotch Ramsay ! And Philip Her-
bert's rapier—did not flash-out. (p. 318).
No. III. Sir Thomas Dutton and Sir Hatton Cheek.
How unthrifty everywhere is any solution of continuity, if it can be
avoided ! Peace here, if possible; over in the Netherlands is always fighting
enough. Swash-buckler duels had now gone-out: Fifty years ago, serious
men took to fighting with rapiers, and the buckler fell away: A more si-
lent duel, but a terribly serious one. Hot tempers at the siege of Juliers:
Under military duty; but not always to be so. Two gentlemen on Calais
sands, in the height of silent fury stript to the shirt and waistband; in the
two hands of each a rapier and dagger clutched: A bloody burial there
SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. 379
that morning. Ill-fated English human creatures, what horrible confusion
of the Pit is this? (p. 321).
THE OPERA.
Music the speech of Angels; raising and admitting the soul to the
Council of the Universe. It was so in old earnest times, whatever it may
have come to be with us. The waste that is made in music among the
saddest of all our squanderings of God's gifts. David's inspired Psalms;
and the things men are inspired to sing now at the Opera. (p. 325).-The
Haymarket Opera, with its lustres, painting, upholstery: Artists, too, got
together from the ends of the world; capable of far other work than squall-
ing here. The very ballet-girls, with their muslin saucers and mad ugly
caperings, little short of miraculous. And to think of some Rossini or
Bellini in the rear of it ! (326).-All this to afford an hour's dreary amuse-
ment to a high-dizened select populace—not worth amusing. The Rhyth-
mic Arts, with their magical accessories, a mere accompaniment; the real
service of the evening Paphian rather. Wonderful to see, and sad if we
had eyes, what the Modern Aristocracy of men can deliberately do | A
world all calculated for strangling of heroisms; and the ages have altered
Strangely : They will alter yet again. (327). t
PROJECT OF A NATIONAL EXHIBITION OF SCOTTISH
PORTRAITS.
Historical interest in good Historical Portraits. Any representation
by a faithful human creature of a Face and Figure worth knowing, which
he saw, which we can never see, is invaluable. (p. 330).-All this apart from
the artistic value of the Portraits. Historical Portrait-Galleries might far
transcend in worth all other kinds of National Collections of Pictures what-
soever. In selecting Portraits, the grand question, What would the best-
informed and most ingenuous soul like most to see, for illuminating and
verifying History to himself? At the end of the account, to have served
him, will be to have served everybody. The thing can by no means be
done by Yankee-Barnum methods; nor should it, if it could. (331).-No
portrait of any living man admitted, however ‘Historical' it promised to
be : The space of a generation required, to discriminate between popular
monstrosities and Historical realities. Engravings, coins, casts; any ge-
nuine help to conceive the actual likeness of the man, should be welcome.
No modern pictures of historical events: Infatuated blotches of insincere
ignorance: Wilkie's John Knoa: ; Battle of Worcester, by some famed Aca-
demician or other. All that kind of matter, as indisputable “chaff to
be severely purged away. Considerations respecting a plurality of por-
380 SUMIMARY OF CONTENTS.
traits of the same person. The question, Who is a Historical Character?
The Catalogue, if well done, one of the best parts of the whole concern.
(334).
THE PRINZENRAUB :
A GLIMPSE OF SAXON HISTORY.
English ignorance of foreign history. German history, especially, quite
wild soil, very rough to the ploughshare. (p. 338).-The Wettin Line of
Saxon Princes (Prince Albert's line); and its lucky inheritance and force
of survival: Through the earlier portion of the fifteenth century, one of
the greatest houses in Germany. Coalescings, splittings, never-ending re-
adjustments. Frederick the Pacific and his brother Wilhelm ‘rule con-
jointly;' till they quarrel and take to fighting. Kunz von Kaufungen, a
German condottiere, employed by Frederick. The fighting over, Kunz is
dissatisfied with his bargain: Exasperations, and threats of revenge. Fre-
derick's two children left at home unguarded: Here is the opportunity
we have hungrily waited-for . A midnight surprise in the venerable little
town of Altenburg: The two Princes (but with a mistake to mend) carried-
pff: Sudden alarms, shrieks, a mother's passionate prayer: Away, rapidly,
through the woods. All Saxony, to the remotest village, from all its belfries
ringing madly. (338).-Kunz, with Albert the younger Prince, within an
hour of the Bohemian border. A grimy Collier, much astonished to find
such company in the solitudes: The Prince rescued, and Kunz Safe-warded
under lock-and-key. The rest of his band supposing their leader dead,
restore Prince Ernst, and are permitted to fly. Kunz and others soon after
tried, and all their transactions ended. The Collier also, not allowed to go
unrewarded. This little actual adventure worthy of a nook in modern me-
mory, for many reasons. (343).-Inextricable confusion and unintelligibility
of Saxon princely names; each person having from ten to twenty, to hide
among. Our two little stolen Princes the heads of two main streams or
Lines, which still continue conspicuously distinct. The elder, or Ernes-
tine Line, got for inheritance the better side of the Saxon country: They
had Weimar, Altenburg, Gotha, Coburg,_above all, Wartburg; of all places
the sun now looks upon, the holiest for a modern man: Immortal remem-
brances, influences and monitions. Ernst's son, Frederick the Wise; who
saved Luther from the Diet of Worms: A man less known to hereditary
governing persons, and others, than he might be. His brother, John the
Steadfast, succeeded him; with whose son the Line underwent sad desti-
nies. (347).-Of the younger, or Albertine Line, there was ‘Duke George;’
much reverenced by many, though Luther thought so little of him : A
much-afflicted, hard-struggling, and not very useful man. One of his
daughters a lineal ancestress of Frederick the Great. Elector Moritz, and
his seemingly-successful jockeyship: The game not yet played-out. How-
ever that may be, the Ernestine Line has clearly got disintegrated: Johann
SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. 381
Friedrich the Magnanimous, then head of that elder line, all now in a re-
duced condition: Why did he found all that imbroglio of little dukes | The
thrifty Brandenburg Hohenzollerns; and their fine talent of “annihilating
rubbish. Moritz, the new Elector, did not last long: No cage big enough
to hold a Kaiser: Beats Albert Alcibiades; and gets killed. The present
King of Saxony a far-off nephew of jockeying Moritz: A most expensive
progeny; in general not admirable otherwise. August the Strong, of the
three-hundred-and-fifty-four bastards: More transcendent king of glutton-
ous flunkeys seldom stalked this earth. His miscellany of mistresses, very
pretty some of them, but fools all: The unspeakably unexemplary mortal
Protestant Saxony spiritually bankrupt ever since. One of his bastards
became Maréchal de Saxe, and made much noise for a time : Like his
father, an immensely strong man; of unbounded dissoluteness, and loose
native ingenuity. (350). — The elder or Ernestine Line, in its undeci-
pherable, disintegrated state. How the pious German mind holds by the
palpably superfluous; and in general cannot annihilate rubbish: The Er-
nestine Line was but like its neighbours in that. Cruel to say of these
Ernestine little Dukes, they have no history: Perhaps here and there
they have more history than we are aware of. Pity brave men, descended
presumably from Witekind and the gods, certainly from John the Stead-
fast and John Frederick the Magnanimous, should be reduced to stand
thus inert, amid the whirling arena of the world! (358).-Bernhard of Wei-
mar, a famed captain in the Thirty-Years War, whose Life Goethe pru-
dently did not write: Not so easy to dig-out a Hero from the mouldering
paper-heaps. Another individual of the Ernestine Line; notable to Eng-
lishmen as ‘Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg.' He also a late, very late, grand-
son of that little stolen Ernst; concerning whom both English History
and English Prophecy might say something. The Horologe of Time goes
inexorably on. (360).
I N D E X.
—º-
ADIEU, i. 355.
Affectation, difference between, and
genuine originality, i. 10, 14 ; the
bane of literature, 203.
Albert, Prince, Saxon Line of, iv. 338
(see Ernestine Line); his Horoscope
and Pedigree, 361.
— Achilles, Elector of Branden-
burg, iv. 340.
— Alcibiades, iv. 355.
— the Courageous, iv. 350.
Albertine Line of Saxon Princes, iv.
Almacks, high Art at, i. 194; gum-
flowers of, to be made living roses
of Eden, iii. 299.
Ambition, i. 236; iv. 115, 158, 172,
182. See Love of Power.
Amusements, unveracious, iv. 329.
Animal attachments, iv. 170; a wise
little Blenheim cocker, 171; like-
ness to man, 171.
Apologue, the age of, ii. 285.
Aristocracy, our, a word to, iii. 177;
gºmple of Self-vision for them, iv.
Art, biographic interest in, iii. 37;
necessity for veracity, iv. 334.
Artificial, the, as contrasted with the
natural, iii. 10.
Artist, German ideal of the true, i.
43, 171; in History, ii. 173; Opera
Artists, iv. 326.
Ass, the, and the moon, ii. 55.
Atheism, how, melts into nothingness,
ii. 76; Richter's Dream of, 163; an
impossibility, iii. 116; proselyting
Atheist, 229, 233.
August the Strong, of the three-hun-
dred-and-fifty-four bastards, iv. 356.
Bacon, Roger, ii. 269.
Badness by its nature negative, iii.
60. See Evil.
Baffometus, Werner’s parable of, i.
Baillie the Covenanter, iv. 223-248;
Scotch Encampment on the Hill of
Dunse, 233; domesticities of Kil-
winning, 236 ; Impeachment and
trial of Strafford, 239.
Balaam and his Ass, iii. 178.
Ballet-girls, iv. 327.
Bºne, the wonderful Sword, ii.
Barnardiston, Sir Nathaniel, iv. 299.
Barnum, Yankee-, methods, iv. 333.
Battle, life a, iii. 33.
Beetle, the, i. 355.
Beginnings, iii. 108.
Being, the lordliest Real-Phantasma-
gory, iv. 4.
Believing, glory of knowing and, ii.
4; mystic power of belief, iii. 22,
28, 40, 61, 242; the least spiritual
belief conceivable, 233 ; supersti-
tious ditto, 278.
Bernhard of Weimar, iv. 360.
Bible, the Hebrew, ii. 88; iii. 161,
245; a History of the primeval
Church, ii. 175; Bible of World-
History, infinite in meaning as the
Divine Mind it emblems, iii. 244.
See Israelitish History.
Biography, a good, almost as rare as
a well-spent life, i. 1; ii. 122; Bio-
graphy, iii. 36-48; the basis of all
that can interest, 37; of sparrows
and cockchafers, 47; need of bre-
vity, 67; the highest Gospel a Bio-
graphy, 79; ‘respectable’ English
Biographies, iv. 3, 140; no heroic
Poem but is at bottom a Biography,
138; biographic worth of a true
Portrait, 330.
Bolivar, ‘the Washington of Colum-
bia, iv. 249.
Bonaparte, Napoleon, iii. 35, 108,123;
his ‘Tools to him that can handle
them,” our ultimate Political Evan-
el, iv. 66, 146; Varnhagen at the
É. of, 195.
384
INDEX.
Boner, and his Edelstein, ii. 280; The
Frog and the Steer, 283.
Bonpland, M., and how Dr. Francia
treated him, iv. 257, 292.
Bookseller-System, the, iii. 78, 208.
Boswell, iii. 46; his character and
gifts, 54; his true Hero-worship
for Johnson, 56; his Johnsoniad,
59; no infringement of social pri-
vacy, 65.
British Translators, ii. 311 ; Critics,
iii. 124.
Brühl, Henry Count von, i 251.
Brummel, Beau, iii. 120.
Burns, i. 195-240; his hard conditions,
198; a true Poet-soul, 200; like a
King in exile, 201; sincerity, 202:
his Letters, 204; tenderness and
piercing emphasis of thought, 207;
the more delicate relations of things,
210; indignation, 1.12; Scots wha
hae, Macpherson’s Farewell, 213 ;
Tam O'Shanter, The Jolly Beggars,
214; his Songs, 215; love of coun-
try, 219; passionate youth never
became clear manhood, 220; his
estimable Father, 221; iv. 206; boy-
hood, and entrance into life, i. 222;
invited to Edinburgh, 224; Sir Wal-
ter Scott's reminiscence of him, 225;
Excise and Farm scheme, 227; ca-
lumny, isolation, death, 229; his
failure chiefly in his own heart, 234;
a divine behest lay smouldering
within him, 238; his kinghood and
kingdom, iii. 72; a contemporary
of Mirabeau, iv. 85.
Byron's short career, i. 52; life-wea-
riness, 165; his manful, yet unvic-
torious struggle, 184; far enough
from faultless, 203, 221 ; ii. 188;
sent forth as a missionary to his
generation, i. 238; poor Byron, who
rºad much substance in him,
IV.
Cabanis's, Dr., metaphysical discove-
ries, ii. 103, g
Cagliostro, Count, iii. 243-296; a Liar
of the first magnitude, 247; singu-
larly prosperous career, 248; birth
and boyhood, 251; with a Convent-
Apothecary, 253; a touch of grim
Humour, 254; returns to Palermo,
255; Forgery and general Swindle-
ry, 256; a Treasure-digging dodge,
and consequent flight, 258; quack-
talent, 263; marriage, and a new
game opened-out, 264; temporary
reverses, 266 ; potions and love-
philtres, 267; visits England, and
drives a prosperous trade in the
supernatural, 268; Freemasonry,
270; his gift of Tongue, 276; suc-
cesses and exposures, 280; how he
fleeced the Cardinal de Rohan, 284;
The Diamond- Necklace business,
286; iv. 18-60; again in England,
iii. 288; Goethe's visit to his family
at Palermo, 289; Cagliostro's Work-
day ended, 294.
Camille Desmoulins, iv. 127.
Cant, i. 203; iii. 58, 97; iv. 105.
Capital Punishments iv. 285.
Cathedral of Immensity, iv. 269.
Catherine of Russia, Diderot's visit to,
iii. 224.
Cervantes, i. 13; iv. 144.
Change, the inevitable approach of,
manifest everywhere, iii. 16 ; iv.
247, 361; universal law of, iii. 28,
108, 150.
Characteristics, iii. 1-33.
Charlemagne, iv. 3.
Charles I., vacuous, chimerical letters
of, iv. 230; judicial blindness, 235:
at Strafford's Trial, 241.
Charles II., iii. 44.
Châtelet, the Marquise du, ii. 26; her
utter shamelessness, 28 ; unimagin-
able death-bed scene, 29.
Cheek, Sir Hatton, and Sir Thomas
Dutton, iv. 321.
Chesterfield, Lord, Johnson's letter
to, iii. 79.
Childhood, fresh gaze of, ii. 86, 116;
happy Unconsciousness of, iii. 2.
Chivalry on the wane, ii. 268, 270;
gone, 279; iii. 22; iv. 11.
Christ, the Divine Life of, i. 182; true
reverence for his sufferings and
death, 183; allusion to, by Tacitus,
ii. 3; a Sanctuary for all the wretch-
ed, iv. 31.
Christian Religion, ineffaceable record
of the, ii. 47 ; its sacred, silent, un-
fathomable depths, 48 ; Novalis's
thoughts on, 88; how it arose and
spread abroad among men, 108 ;
dissipating into Metaphysics, iii.
17

Church. History, a continued Holy
Writ, ii. 175; Mother-Church a su-
perannuated stepmother, iii. 22.
Circumstances, man not the product
of his, i. 267; the victorious sub-
duer, iii. 70; their inevitable influ-
ence, 228 ; iv. 150.
Clothes-horse, man never altogether
a, iii. 118.
INDEX.
385
Cobbett, William, a most brave phe-
nomenon, iv. 148, 179. º
Codification, the new trade of, ii. 107,
329.
Coleridge, ii. 58.
Commons, English House of, iv. 287.
Commonweal, European, tendency to
a, ii. 337. See Europe, European
Revolution.
Condamine, M. de la, iv. 262.
Conscience, the only safehold, ii. 179;
singular forms of, iii. 235; not found
in every character named human,
iv. 22.
Constancy the root of all excellence,
ll. Oğ.
Contagion, spiritual, ii. 98; iii. 9.
Conversation, the phenomenon of, iii.
37, 183; sincere and insincere, 65.
Cooper, Fenimore, what he might
have given us, iv. 139.
cºight Bill, Petition on the, iv.
07
Corn-Law Rhymes, and Rhymer, iii.
157-180; an earnest, truth-speaking
man, 164; his bread-tax philosophy,
166; primary idea of all poetry,
169 ; defects of manner, 170 ;
glimpses into the prophetic Book
of Existence, 171; the poor Work-
man's hopeless struggle, 173; Enoch
Wray, an inarticulate, half-audible
Epic, 176.
Cº. Laws and Sliding-Scales, iv.
4
Courage, true, iii. 94, 111.
Court-life, teetotum terrors of, iv. 17.
Creation and Manufacture, iii. 4; what
few things are made by man, iv. 8.
See Man, Invention.
Creed, every, and Form of worship, a
form merely, i. 109.
Crichton, Lord Sanquhar, iv. 319.
Criticism, German literary, i. 38; the
Critical Philosophy, 56; petty cri-
tics, 191. See British.
Croker's, Mr., edition of Boswell, iii.
Cromwell, what, did, iii. 75; iv. 246.
Croydon Races, a quarrel at, iv. 318.
Crusades, the, ii. 1.
Cui bono, i. 352.
Currie's, Dr., Life of Burns, i. 196.
D'Alembert, iii. 211.
Dante, iv. 73, 178.
Danton, an Earthborn, yet honestly
born of Earth, iv. 66.
David, King, iv. 326.
Death, the seal and immortal conse-
WOL, IV, C C
cration of Life, i. 235; iii. 13: Eter-
nity looking through Time, 107; if
not always the greatest epoch, yet
the most noticeable, 113.
Defoe, i. 209.
Pºey, stern Avatar of, iii. 259;
IV. li.
Denial and Destruction, i. 163; ii. 13,
49; iii. 81, 179, 191, 233; change
from, to affirmation and re-con-
struction, ii. 319; iii. 24.
Descriptive power, i. 208; iii. 45.
D'Ewes, Sir Simonds, High-Sheriff of
Suffolk, iv. 297 ; his immaculate
election affidavits, 298; Sir Simonds
sat spotless for Sudbury, 311; took
Notes of the Long Parliament, 312;
purged out with some four or five
score others, 312; value of his Ms.
Notes, 313.
Diamond Necklace, the, iv. 1–60; the
various histories of those various
Diamonds, 7; description of, 9; it
changes hands, 43; Diamonds for
sale, 48; the extraordinary ‘Neck-
lace' Trial, 51.
Diderot, iii. 189 242; his Father, 195;
education, 196; precarious manner
of life, 200; marriage, 204; general
scoundrelism, 206 ; authorship,207;
his letters, 210; incredible activity,
219; garbled proof-sheets, 219; free,
open-handed life in Paris, 222; visits
Petersburg, 224; death,226; mental
gifts, 227; a proselyting Atheist,
229; utter shamelessness and un-
cleanness, 234; brilliant Talk, 236 ;
literary facility, 277; neither a cow-
: nor in any sense a brave man,
Dilettantism, reign of, iii. 142.
Divine Right of Kings, and of Squires,
iv. 247.
Do-nothing, the vulgar, contrasted
with the vulgar Drudge, iii. 160.
Diºgº Gallery of Weimar Authors,
1. Z.
Doubt, withering influence of, i. 164;
the inexhaustible material which
Action fashions into Certainty, iii.
20. See Infidelity, Scepticism.
Dresden, bombardment of, i. 255.
Du Barry's foul day done, iv. 10.
Duelling, ii. 279; iv. 315.
Dumont's Souvenirs sur Mirabeau, iv.
Duncon's, Samuel, election affidavits,
iv. 300.
Dunse, Scotch Encampment on the
Hill of, iv. 233.
386
INDEX.
Dutton, Sir Thomas, and Sir Hatton
Cheek, iv. 321.
Duty, infinite nature of, iii. 85 ; iv.
150; duty-made-easy, iii. 241.
Jºdelstein. See Boner.
Education, real and so-called, iii. 161;
how young souls are trained to live
on poison, iv. 265; frightful waste
of faculty and labour, 326,
Egalité, Philippe, iv. 37.
Eighteenth Century, the prosaic, i.
198, 235; in it all the elements of
the French Revolution, ii. 16, 50 ;
iii. 190, 210; iv. 93; an era of Cant,
iii. 58 ; Hypocrisy and Atheism di-
jºs the world between them, 81,
Eloquence, long-eared, how to acquire
the gift of, iii. 277.
Emigration, iii. 30.
Ense's, Varnhagen von, Memoirs, iv.
185-206; his peculiar qualifications,
188; visit to Jean Paul, 189; fight-
ing at Wagram, 193; experiences
at the Court of Napoleon, 195; Ra-
hel, his Wife, a kind of spiritual
queen in Germany, 199; her letters,
#. ; brilliant talk, 201 ; her death,
Envy, a putrid corruption of sympa-
thy, iii. 116.
Epics, the old, believed Histories, iii.
40; the true Epic of our Time, 176.
Era, a New, began with Goethe, iii.
107, 110, 150. See Spiritual.
Erasmus, i. 21.
Ernestine Line of Saxon Princes, iv.
348, 353; in its disintegrated state,
358.
Error, and how to confute it, ii. 59.
Europe, like a set of parishes, iv. 162.
See Commonweal, Feudal.
Evil, Origin of, speculations on the,
iii. 19 ; evil, in the widest sense of
the word, 22. See Badness, Right
and Wrong.
Exeter-Hall twaddle, iv. 285.
Fables, Four, i. 353; the fourteenth
century an age of Fable, ii. 284.
Fact, the smallest historical, con-
trasted with the grandest fictitious
event, iii. 43, 61. See Reality.
Faith. See Believing.
Fame, no test of merit, i. 156; the
fantastic article so called, iii. 89.
See Popularity. -
Fate, different ideas of, i. 294; Sopho-
cles, iv. 326.
Fault, what we mean by a, i. 191.
Faust, Goethe's, emphatically a work
of Art, i. 116; the story a Christian
mythus, 117; several attempts to
body it forth, 118; Goethe's suc-
cess, 119; his conception of Mephi-
stopheles, 119 ; of Faust himself,
120; of Margaret, 124; the original
legend, ii. 289; like a death-song
of departing worlds, iii. 147.
Feudal Europe, old, fallen a-dozing to
die, iii. 259.
Fichte's notion of the Literary Man,
i. 44; his Philosophy, 58; ii. 75.
Fiction, and its kinship to lying, iii. 40.
Fontaine, La, iv. 189.
Foolishest, the, of existing mortals,
iii. 39.
Formica-leo, natural history of the,
iii. 223.
Fortuna, i. 357.
Fouqué, Friedrich de la Motte, parent-
age, life and writings, i. 311-315.
Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries,
ºman Literature of the, ii. 264-
Fourth Estate, beginnings of the, iii.
87; its energetic youth, 208.
Fox, George, i. 55.
Francia, Dr., iv. 249-294; the nota-
blest of South-American Dictators,
257; parentage and schooling, 264;
perhaps the justest Advocate that
ever took briefs in that distant coun-
try, 267; an unjust judge discom-
forted, 271 ; hypochondria, 273 ;
Secretary of a Paraguay National
Congress, 274; retires into privacy,
275; his personal appearance, and
library, 276; gets himself declared
Dictator, 278; a conspiracy detect-
ed, and forty persons executed, 279;
two harvests in one season, 280; his
lease of Paraguay, 282; Funeral
Eulogium, 284; his message to the
English Nation, 287; his ‘Work-
man's Gallows,’ 289; mode of life,
290 ; treatment of M. Bonpland,
292 ; rumoured quarrel with his fa-
ther ; his life of labour ended, 294.
rººk, Elector, der Streitbare, iv.
— the Pacific, iv. 339; differences
with Kunz von Kaufungen, 341; his
§ Children stolen and recovered,
— the Wise, who saved Luther
from the Diet of Worms, iv. 349.
tºmºsºs * the big King of Poland,
iv. 356.
INDEX.
387
Frederick the Great at Dresden, i. 252,
255; his favour for La Motte Fou-
qué, 312; Voltaire's visit to, ii. 25;
his notion of Shakspeare, 44; a
Philosophe King, iii. 216.
Freedom, a higher, than freedom from
oppression, ii. 117.
Freemasonry, Cagliostro's, iii. 270.
French poetry, ii. 45; philosophy, 53,
103
Friendship, in the old heroic sense, i.
Figger, Anton, of Augsburg, ii. 294.
Gallows, terror of the, iv. 54; Dr. Fran-
cia's ‘Workman's Gallows,’ 289.
Genius ever a secret to itself, iii. 4, 8;
iv. 155. See Original Man.
Gentleman, modern, and meagre Pat-
tern-Figure, iv. 1. See Respecta-
bility.
George, Duke of Saxony, whom Lu-
ther thought so little of, iv. 351.
German Literature, State of, i. 20-65;
foreign ignorance of, 22; charge of
bad-taste, 28; German authors not
specially poor, 33; high character
of German poetry, 48; charge of
Mysticism, 53; Irreligion, 64; First
era of German Literature, ii. 265,
317; physical science unfolds itself,
269; Didactic period, 271; Fable
literature, 284; on all hands an as-
pect of full progress, 292; rudi-
ments of a new spiritual era, 319;
for two centuries in the sere leaf,
143.
Gesta Romanorum, the, ii. 285, 287.
Gigmanity, literary, ii. 144; iii. 129.
God, the Living, no cunningly-devised
fable, iii. 231 ; judgments of, 261.
Gº; the, vanished from the world,
Ill. Zºk.
Goethe's pictorial criticism, i. 47; his
Poetry, 49; Goethe, 150-194; his
Autobiography, 154 ; unexampled
reputation, 155; the Teacher and
exemplar of his age, 157; Werter,
and Götz von Berlichingen, 159,
164; iv. 161 ; his notions on suicide,
i. 168; Wilhelm Meister, 169-183;
spiritual manhood, 184; singularly
emblematic intellect, 185; a master
of Humanity and of Poetry, 186;
not a ‘German Voltaire,’ 188, 190 ;
his faults, 191; Sketch of his life
and works, 339-350 ; his prose,
ii. 158; intercourse with Schiller,
198, 219; Goethe's Portrait, iii.
34; Death of Goethe, 105 - 1.12;
beginning of a New Era, 107;
Goethe's Works, 113-156; his great-
ness, 123; his Wahrheit und Dick-
twmy, 126; childhood and parent-
age, 129; his father's hatred of the
French Army, 131 ; beautiful Gret-
chen, 136; at Leipzig University,
136 ; studies for the Law, 138 ;
the good Frederike, 139; Goethe's
goodness and badness, 140 ; the
German Chaos, 142; first literary
productions, 144 ; settles in Wei-
mar, 145; inward life as recorded
in his Writings, 147; tribute from
Fifteen Englishmen, 148; his spiri-
tual significance, 155 ; a contem-
porary of Mirabeau, iv. 85. See
Faust, Helena, Novelle, The Tale,
Madame de Staël.
Goldsmith, i. 162; iii. 91.
Good, no, that is possible but shall
one day be real, iii. 28; in Goodness
the surest instinct for the Good,
262.
Good Man, the, ever a mystic creative
centre of Goodness, iii. 175; the
working of the good and brave en-
dures literally forever, iv. 206. See
a Tl.
Gottsched, Goethe's interview with,
iii. 137.
Government, true, the showing what
to do, iii. 260.
Graphic, secret of being, iii. 45.
Gray, i. 162.
Great Men, the Fire-pillars of the
world, ii. 183; iii. 69, 108, 151; and
Fire-eaters, iv. 146; on the Great-
ness of, iii. 115; iv. 143. See Man.
Greek Consecration of the Flesh, iii.
245.
Grillparzer's, Franz, superior merits
for a playwright, i. 272; his worst
Play, the Ahnfraw, 273; his König
Ottokars Glück und Ende, 275.
Grimm, iii. 212.
Gunpowder, invention and benefit of,
ii. 296.
Half-and-halfness, ii. 188; iii. 83,
231; the one thing wholly despic-
able and forgetable, 246.
Hampden, John, iv. 295.
Happiness-controversy, the foolish, ii.
200 ; illustration of the ‘Greatest-
Happiness' principle, iii. 268.
Hater, a good, still a desideratum, i.
212.

Hatred an inverse love, iii. 116.
Hazlitt, iii. 24.
388
INDEX.
hº meaning and value of, iv. 147,
Heart, a loving, the beginning of
Knowledge, iii. 46, 120.
Heath's, Carrion, Life of Oliver Crom-
well, iv. 296.
Heeren, Professor, and his rub-a-dub
style of moral-sublime, i. 241.
Heldenbuch, the, ii. 223; specimen of
the old poetry, 225; connexion with
the Nibelungen, 228.
Helena, Goethe's, a dainty little Phan-
tasmagoria, i. 111 ; half-literal,
half-parabolic style, 1.12; Helena,
part of a continuation of Faust,
115; introductory Notice by the
Author, 125; condensed elucidatory
sketch of the poem, with extracts,
126-128.
Helvetius's Game-Preserves, iii. 214.
Hengst and Horsa, iii. 187.
Herbert, Philip, and James Ramsay,
iv. 319.
Herder, ii. 158; iii. 141.
Heroic poems and heroic lives, i. 239;
ii. 122; iii. 243.
Heroine-worship, i. 258; iv. 199.
Hºmº why, are not done now, iv.
Hero-worship perennial in the human
bosom, iii. 58; iv. 135; almost the
only creed that can never grow ob-
solete, iii. 116. See Heroine-wor-
ship.
Heyne, Life of, i. 241-267; parentage,
boyhood and extreme penury, 243;
a poor incipient Gerund-grinder,
246; a school-triumph, 247; mise-
ries of a poor scholar, 248; his edi-
tion of Tibullus, 252; first interview
with Theresa Weiss, 253; driven
from Dresden by the Prussian bom-
bardment, 255; marries, 257; his
Wife's devoted courage, 257; ap-
pointed to a professorship in Göttin-
gen, 258; his Wife's death, 261 ;
marries again, 262; university la-
bours, 263; death, 264.
Higgins, General O’, Director of Chile,
iv. 253.
History, on, ii. 168-177; the basis of
all knowledge, 168 ; vain Philoso-
phies of, 160; iii. 38; the more im-
portant part of, lost without recov-
ery, ii. 170, 183; artists and arti-
sans of, 173; infinity, 174; iii. 210;
the history of a nation’s Poetry, the
essence of its entire doings, ii. 315;
History the essence of innumerable
Biographies, iii. 38; the true Poetry,
62; what things are called ‘Histo-
ries,’ 63; iv. 2; on History again,
iii. 181-188; the Message from the
whole Past to each man, 182; Uni-
versal History the Autobiography of
Mankind, 185; the grand sacred
Epos, or Bible of World-History,
244; Scott's Historical Novels, 176;
unspeakable value of contemporary
memoirs, 229; of a sincere Portrait,
; ; who is a Historical Character,
335.
Hitzig's Lives of Hoffmann and Wer-
ner, i. 67.
Hoffmann's quick eye, and fastidious
feelings, i. 92; his life, character
and writings, 321.
Hohenstauffen Emperors, last of the,
ii. 266.
Hohenzollerns, the Brandenburg, and
their talent for annihilating rub-
bish, iv. 354.
Holbach, Baron d', iii. 215; his Philo-
sophes and Philosophesses, 220.
Holles, John, and his quarrel with
Gervase Markham, iv. 316.
Home-poetry, i. 204, 217.
Homer, i. 209 ; ii. 262.
Hoop, Père, iii. 220.
Hope's, Mr., Essay on the Origin and
Prospects of Man, iii. 25.
Horn's, Franz, merits as a literary his-
torian, i. 20.
Horsemanship, Guacho, iv. 270.
Hume's scepticism, i. 61; ii. 76; iii.
108; Hume and Johnson contrasted,
102; fifteen Athoists at one cast, 229.
Humility, Christian, ii. 47; blessed
are the humble, they that are not
known, iv. 206.
Humour, sensibility the essence of, i.
11, 213; the finest perfection of
poetic genius, ii. 208.
Huss, John, ii. 297.
Idea, society the embodiment of an, iii.
11; great men, iv. 146. See Man.
Idealism, ii. 73.
Impossibility, every genius an, till he
appear, i. 206; Mirabeau’s notion of
impossibilities. iv. 94.
hº Empire of, in flames, iv.
5
Improvisators, literary, ii. 57; iv. 179.
Indignation, i. 212.
Infidelity, iii. 81.
Inheritance, infinite, of every human
soul, iii. 33.
Inspiration still possible, ii. 319; iii.
4, 42, 107
INDEX.
380
Intellect, celebrated March of, iii. 14;
what might be done, with intellect
enough, iv. 230, 246.
Inventions, human, ii. 53, 108; Ger-
man contributions to the general
store, ii. 296 ; Irish ditto, iii. 43.
Invisible World, the, within and about
us, ii. 77.
Irving, Death of Edward, iii. 297.
Israelitish History, significance of, i.
181; iii. 242. See Bible.
Iturbide, ‘the Napoleon of Mexico,'
iv. 249
Jacobis, the two, i. 37; ii. 158.
James I., iv. 319, 321.
Jenny Geddes's stool, flight of, iv.
223, 233.
Jesuits, skill and zeal of the, iii. 197;
Jesuitism sick unto death, 215; iv.
266; Jesuit Georgel, 14.
Johnson's, Dr., preventive against bad
biographies, i. 1; his sound practi.
cal sense, 162; a small occurrence,
iii. 45. Boswell’s Life of Johnson,
49-104; his existence a Reality
which he transacted awake, 70; po-
verty and sore obstruction, 71; boy-
ish turn for royalty, 72; college
mortifications, and stubborn pride,
73; his brave-hearted Wife, 75; a
literary career, 76; letter to Lord
Chesterfield, 79; his distracted era,
and manful honesty, 81; his Parlia-
mentary Debates, 87; tears of Sa-
cred triumph, 89; a little circle
around the Wise man, 90 ; the con-
servation of what was genuine in
Toryism, 93 ; a brave man, 94 ; his
clear hatred of Cant, 97 ; merciful,
affectionate nature, 98 ; market-
place at Uttoxeter, 99; politeness,
100; prejudices, 101; Johnson and
Hume, 102.
Johnson's House in Gough Square, a
visit to, iii. 88.
John the Steadfast, iv. 350.
— Frederick the Magnanimous, iv.
350, 352, 354, 358.
Jomson's, Ben, war-tuck, iv. 321.
Juliers, siege of, iv. 323.
Rant's Philosophy, i. 56; ii. 73;
Schiller's opinion of, 217.
Raufungen, Kunz von, iv. 340, 363;
exasperations with Elector Frede-
rick, 341; steals his two Sons, 342;
beheaded, 345.
Keats's weak-eyed sensibility, i. 209.
Kempis, Thomas à, ii. 291.
Kepler's true love of wisdom, ii. 17.
Kings, Nature's, and their poor dog-
hutch kingdoms, iii. 72; a true man
must tend to be King of his own
world, iv. 282. See Original Man.
Klingemann, Dr. August, the most
indisputable of playwrights, i. 278;
his Ahasuer, 279; Faust, and his
melodramatic contract with the
Devil, 280.
Klopstock, i. 36; ii. 158; his Alle-
gory of The Two Muses, 331.
Knaves, given a world of, what must
come of it, iii. 32.
Know thyself, iii. 244.
Rnox, John, one of the truest of the
true, iv. 150; Wilkie's picture of, a
worthless failure, 334.
Kotzebue, August von, a warning to
all Rºwrights i. 271 ; ii. 330, 332;
1W. i4+.
Labour, and free Effort, iii. 22; infi-
nite significance of, 244. See Work,
Working Classes.
Lamotte-Valois, the Countess de, iii.
286; her pedigree, birth, character
and career, iv. 21-57.
Laughter, worth of true, iv. 329.
Lavater and Cagliostro, iii. 279.
Leopold of Anhalt-Dessau, iv. 359.
Lessing, i. 36.
Letter-writing, conventional, iv. 164;
subjective, 200; veracious, 228; va-
cuous and inane, 230.
Life, a means to an end, iii. 3; infi-
mite mystery of 243; iv. 4. See
Man.
Lion. See Soirées.
Literary Men, a perpetual priesthood,
i. 44; ii. 1, 114, 188, 336; iii. 207;
desirable to pay them by the quan-
tity they do not write, iv. 138. See
Newspaper-Editors.
Literature, influence of, ii. 1, 336;
diseased self-consciousness, iii. 18;
froth and substance, 46; iv. 261 ;
domain of Belief, iii. 190; literary
shampooings, iv. 161, 175; flesh-
flies, 168; extempore writing, 177;
subjective writing, 200. See Read,
Locke, and his followers, i. 60 ; paved
the way for banishing Religion from
the world, 162; ii. 104; wrote his
Essay in a Dutch garret, i. 236.
Lockhart's Life of Burns, i. 195; of
Scott, iv. 138.
Logic, the rushlight of, ii. 112 ; logic
and its limits, iii. 4, 230; iv. 63.
See Metaphysics.
890
INDEX.
Lope de Vega, iv. 144.
Louis XV., ungodly age of, ii. 50;
iii. 191, 217 ; iv. 13; his ‘ amende
honorable to God,' 16.
Love the beginning of all things, iii,
46, 120.
Luther's prose a half-battle, ii. 158;
his love of music and poetry, 178;
before the Diet of Worms, 179; his
Psalm, 179; his Life the latest pro-
phecy of the Eternal, iv. 348.
Machinery, age of, ii. 100; iii. 228 ;
supernatural, 41. See Mechanical.
Macpherson, i. 213.
Magi, Oriental, books of the, iii. 245.
Mahomet, iv. 282.
Maids, old and young, Richter's ap-
peal to, ii. 162.
Man the clearest symbol of the Divi-
nity, iii. 117; the life of every man
a Poem, and Revelation of Infinity,
243; iv. 4. See Good, Great, Mi-
crocosm, Original Man.
Manhood, i. 223.
Marie-Antoinette, iv. 11, 20, 30, 45.
Marriage-law, strange state of the, in
Germany, i. 99; the Marriage-cove-
nant, iii. 233.
Martin, General San, and his march
over the Andes, iv. 251.
Maxwell, James, and his insolent sar-
donic ways, iv. 319.
Mechanical Philosophy, i. 162; its in-
evitable Atheism, iii. 230. See Ma-
chinery.
Medea-caldron, the, iv. 281.
Meditation, iii. 4. See Silence.
Memoirs, value of, if honest, iii. 189;
iv. 186, 188, 229.
Memory, no wise, without wise Obli-
vion, iii. 185; iv. 313; the strange
alchemy of 230, 246.
Mendelsohn, author of Phaedon, i. 37.
Merchant Princes of Germany, ii.
3
Mercifulness, true, iii. 98.
Metaphysics, the disease of, perennial,
iii. 19; the forerunner of good, 30.
Microcosm, Man a, or epitomised mir-
ror of the Universe, iii. 59, 192.
See Man.
Milton, i. 236; iv. 178; mute Miltons,
149.
Minnesingers. See Swabian Era.
Mirabeau, iv. 61-118; by far the best-
gifted of all the notables of the
French Revolution, 68; his Father,
the tough choleric old Friend of Men,
73; the Mirabeaus from Florence,
73; a notable kindred, exempt from
blockheads but liableto blackguards,
74; talent for choosing Wives, 75;
gruff courtiership, 76; at the Battle
of Casano, 77; of the whole strange
kindred, no stranger figure than the
Friend of Men, 78; his literary and
other gifts and eccentricities, 79;
his domestic difficulties, and Rha-
damanthine struggles, 82; birth of
Gabriel Honoré, last of the Mira-
beaus, 84; education, the scientific
paternal hand versus Nature and
others, 85; sent to boarding-School,
87; banished to Saintes; fresh mis-
demeanors: Lettre de Cachet, and
the Isle of Rhé,89; fighting in Cor-
sica, 91; the old Marquis's critical
survey of his strange offspring, 92;
the General Overturn, 93; the one
man who might have saved France,
94; marriage, 96; banished to Ma-
mosque, 97; in the castle of If; a
stolen visit from his Brother, 99; at
Pontarlier, 101 ; Mirabeau and So-
phie Monnier escape into Holland,
103; in the castle of Vincennes,
106; before the Besançon and Aix
Parlements, 108; the world's es-
teem now quite against him, 110 ;
States-General, his flinging-up of
the handful of dust, 113; deputy
for Aix, 114; victory and death, 115.
Miracles, the age of, now and ever, iii.
Misery not so much the cause as the
effect of Immorality, iii. 261. See
Wretchedness.
Moderation, and other fine names, ii.
188. Seo Half-and-halfness.
More's, Hannah, anti-German trum-
pet-blast, ii. 309.
Moritz, Elector, and his superior jock-
eyship, iv. 352.
Moses, the Iſebrew outlaw, ii. 2.
Müller, Friedrich, i. 118.
Müllner, Dr., supreme over play-
wrights, i. 287 ; his Newspaper
Qualifications, 296.
Musäus, Johann August, his life and
writings, i. 306; his Volksmährehen,
308; moral and intellectual charac-
ter, 309.
Music, Luther's love of, ii. 178; the
divinest of all the utterances allowed
to man, iv. 325; condemned to
madness, 329.
Mystery, deep significance of, iii. 13;
mystical and intellectual enjoyment
of an object, 210, 296.
INDEX.
391
Mysticism, i. 53; ii. 72, 97.
Mythologies, the old, once Philoso-
phies, iii. 40. See Pan, Sphinx.
Naigeon's Life of Diderot, iii. 193.
Names, inextricable confusion of Saxon
princely, iv. 347; Mirabeau's ex-
pressive Nicknames, 112.
Narratives, difference between mere,
and the broad actual History, ii.
172; grand source of our modern fic-
tions, 285; mimic Biographies, iii.39;
narrative, the staple of speech, 183.
National characteristics, i. 22, 194,
217 ; iv. 150; suffering, i. 261.
Nature, not dead matter, but the
living mysterious Garment of the
Unseen, ii. 78; iii. 3; iv. 4, 46;
Book of, ii. 174; iv. 266; successive
Revelations, 176.
Netherlands, wars in the, iv. 321.
Nibelungen Lied, the, ii. 220-263; an
old German Epos of singular poetic
interest, 233; extracts, and con-
densed sketch of the Poem, 236;
antiquarian researches into its ori-
gin, 257.
Night-Moth, Tragedy of the, i. 351.
Nineteenth Century, our poor, and its
indestructible Romance, iv. 4; at
once destitute of faith, and terrified
at scepticism, 155, 160; an age all
calculated for strangling of heroisms,
329. See Present Time, European
Revolution.
Nobility, Ig-, i. 233.
Nobleness, old, may become a new
reality, ii. 117. See Aristocracy.
Nº. Mr. Henry, of Mildenhall, iv.
Northern Archaeology, ii. 220.
Novalis's perplexity with Wilhelm
Meister, i. 175; ii. 87; speculations
on French Philosophy, ii. 53; Nova-
lis, 57-97; parentage and youth,
63; death of his first love, 65; lite-
rary labours, 70; illness and death,
71; his Idealism, 77; extracts from
his Lehrlinge zu Sais, &c., 79; Phi-
losophic Fragments, 85; Hymns to
the Wight, and Heinrich von Ofter-
dingen, 89; intellectual and moral
characteristics, 95.
Novelle, translated from Goethe, iii.
303-315.
Novels, Fashionable, iii. 39; partially
living, 42; what they must come to,
190; Scott's Historical Novels, iv.
176
76.
Newspaper-Editors, the Mendicant
Friars of these days, ii. 114; their
unwearied straw-thrashing, iv. 179.
See Fourth Estate.
Oblivion, the dark page on which Me-
mory writes, iii 185. See Memory.
Obscene wit, iii. 222.
Oliva, the Demoiselle d’, iv. 38.
Opera, the, iv. 325-329.
Oratory and Rhetoric, iii. 5.
Original Man, difficulty of understand-
ing an, i. 189, 191, 206; ii. 57, 183;
iv.61, 117, 198; the world's injustice,
i. 240; ii. 2; iii. 75; uses of, 108,
110, 112, 122; iv. 286; no one with
absolutely no originality, iii. 67; an
original Scoundrel, 246; the world’s
wealth consists solely in its original
men, and what they do for it, iv. 62.
See Man.
Pan, the ancient symbol of, iii. 59.
Paper, Rag-, invention of, ii. 297.
Paradise, the dream of, iii. 21.
Paraguay and its people, iv. 268.
Parker, Sir Philip, iv. 299.
Parliament, Long, an Election to the,
iv. 295-314; Samuel Duncon's affi-
davits concerning the election for
Suffolk, 300; ‘short and true rela-
tion' of the same by Sir Symonds
D’Ewes, 306; his valuable Notes of
the Long Parliament, 313. See
Commons, &c.
Pascal and Novalis, resemblances be-
tween, ii. 96.
Past, the, the fountain of all Know-
ledge, ii. 173; iii. 181; the true
Past never dies, 29; iv. 246; sacred
interest of, iii. 45, 61.
Patrons of genius, and convivial Me-
caenases, i. 228; patronage twice
gººd. 232; ditto twice blessed, iii.
Pauperism, iii. 173.
Peoples'-Books, ii. 308.
Periodical Windmills, ii. 102.
Philosophes, the French, iii. 189, 209.
Philosophy teaching by Experience,
ii. 169; iii. 38. See Kant.
Phosphorus, Werner's parable of, i.
Playwrights, German and English, i.
; tricks of the trade, 273, 278,
90
Pleasure, personal, ii. 51, 115, 202.
Poetic culture, i. 30, 42, 171, 206.
Poetry, the true end of, i. 50, 204,
237; ii. 87, 187, 315, 336; iv. 326;
English and German poetry mu-
392
INDEX.
tually illustrative, i. 51; Poetry can
never die, 65; not a mere stimu-
lant, 163, 193; ii. 113; our theories
and genetic histories of, 267; poetry
as Apologue, 285; what implied by
a nation's Poetry, 315; Epic, iii.
40; present condition of, 157; the
life of each man a Poem, 243
Politeness, Johnson's, iii. 100.
Popularity and Originality, i. 189; ii.
119, 170; iv. 144; fell poison of po-
pular applause, iii. 299; iv. 158.
See Fame.
Portraits, Project of a National Exhi-
bition of Scottish, iv. 330–337.
Poverty, the lot of many poets and
wise men, i. 235; advantages from,
237; ii. 135, 137; Christian-Ortho-
doxy's dread of, iii. 52.
Power, love of, iv. 282. See Ambition.
Present Time, the, ii. 99; iii. 14, 21;
in pangs of travail with the New,
24; the Present the living sum-total
of the whole Past, 29, 115. See
Nineteenth Century.
Pride's purge, iv. 312.
Priest and Philosopher, old healthy
identity of, ii. 176; iii. 12.
Printing, invention of, ii. 297.
Prinzenraub, the, iv. 338-363.
Prose, fººd, better than bad Rhyme,
iii. 179.
Protestantism, modern, i. 100.
Public Opinion, Force of, ii. 51, 115.
Publishing Societies, and what they
might do towards a real History of
England, iv. 314.
Puffery, the deluge of, iii. 209.
Putrescence and Social Decay, iii. 260.
Pym, John, iv. 295.
Quackery, portentous age of, iii. 259;
dishonesty the raw material alike of
Quackery and Dupery, 262; decep-
tion and self-deception, 278, 283.
Quietest, the Greatest by nature also
the, iv. 155. See Silence, Whole-
IlêSS.
Rahel Varnhagen von Ense. See Ense.
Ram-dass the Hindoo man-god, iv.
146.
Read, what it is to, an author, i. 114,
191; ii. 57, 94; iv. 230.
Reality, deep significance of, iii. 40,
44, 190, 295; iv. 5, 46, 325.
Reform, ii. 118; not joyous but griev-
ous, iv. 281.
Reformation, era of the, ii. 272; in
Scotland, iii. 64.
Reid, Dr., ii. 74.
Religion, utilitarian, i. 163; ii. 113 ;
heroic idea of 236; self-conscious,
iii. 17. See Christian.
Penner, the. See Hugo von Trim-
burg.
Renunciation, the beginning of Life,
ii. 67; one harmonious element of
the Highest, iii. 236.
Republic of Literature, i. 152. See
Literary Men, Literature.
Respectability, iii. 247; baleful influ-
ence of, iv. 2, 140; how generated,
54. See Gigmanity.
Reverence, worth of, i. 179; not
sycophancy, iii. 60, 175; need of
enlightenment, 120; reverence for
the Highest, in ourselves and in
others, 243,
Reviewers, duty of, i. 298; what is
called ‘reviewing,” ii. 60; iii. 19;
the trade well - nigh done, ii. 313;
Smelfungus's despair, iii. 157. See
Read.
Revolution, a European, rapidly pro-
ceeding, iii. 122. See Commonweal,
Europe.
English, our great, iv. 229, 295;
Civil - War Pamphlets, 296, 297;
Pride's purge, 312.
— French, meaning of the, ii. 117;
masses of Quackism set fire to, iii.
262; a greater work never done by
men so small, iv. 64; the Event of
these modern ages, 119.
Parliamentary History of
the, iv. 119-134; Thiers's History,
Mignet's, and others, 120; curious
collections of revolutionary books,
pamphlets, &c., 124; death of Fou-
lon, 125; the Palais-Royal ; white
and black Cockades; Insurrection
of Women, 128; the Jacobins' Club,
in its early days of moral-sublime,
130; the September Massacre, 132.
— the South-American, and set of
revolutions, iv. 249.
Reynard the Fow, Apologue of, ii.264;
researches into its origin, 298; ana-
lysis of 302; extract, showing the
language of our old Saxon Father-
land, 306.
Richardson, i. 209.
Richter, Jean Paul Friedrich, i. 1-19;
leading events of his life, 5; his
multifarious works, 7; extract from
Quintus Fixlein, 18; poverty, 237;
brief sketch of his life and writings,
331; J. P. F. Richter again, ii. 119-
167; his peculiar style, 120; a true
INDEX.
393
literary man, heroic and devout,
122; interesting fragment of Auto-
biography, 124; birth and pedigree,
125; his good Father, and early
home, 126; self-vision, 130; educa-
tion and extreme poverty, 131 ; his
first productions, 136; this too a
Spartan Boy, 139 ; his Costume
Controversy, 140; dares to be poor,
143; triumphant success of Hespe-
rus, 148; his marriage, 150; un-
wearied diligence, 151 ; blindness
and death, 153; intellectual and
literary character, 154; extracts,
158; on Daughter-full houses, 161 ;
his vast Imagination, 162 ; his
Dream of Atheism, 163; review of
De Staël's ‘Allemagne,’ 341; Warn-
hagen's pleasant visit to, iv. 189.
Ridicule not the test of truth, ii. 13.
Right and Wrong infinitely different,
iii. 85, 236; the question of, only
the second question, 248. See Evil.
Robber-Towers and Free-Towns of
Germany, ii. 292.
Robertson's History of Scotland, iii.
64.
Robespierre's, Mahomet, scraggiest of
prophetic discourses, iv. 64; an atra-
biliar Formula of a man, nearly two
years Autocrat of France, 65; once
an Advocate in Arras, 285.
Rohan, Prince Cardinal de, and Cag-
liostro, iii. 284 ; what he was, iv.
12; how he bore his dismissal from
Court, and what came of it, 17-59.
Roland of Roncesvalles, iv. 3.
Romance, Translations from German,
Preface to, i. 303; the age of Ro-
mance can never cease, iv. 1; none
ever seemed romantic to itself, 3.
Roman Emperors, era of the, ii. 50.
Rousseau, ii. 18, 39; iii. 40, 211 ; iv.
267.
Rudolf of Hapsburg, ii. 266.
Sachs, Hans, a literary contemporary
of Luther, i. 25.
Satan, Milton's, i. 238.
Sauerteig, on the significance of Real-
ity, iii. 40; on Life, 243; on Na-
tional suffering, 261 ; on Reforming
a Nation, iv. 281.
Saxe, Maréchal de, iv. 357.
Saxon Heptarchy, the, iii. 187.
Saxony, Kings of, iv. 354, 355.
Scepticism, the sourmess of the new
fruit of growing Knowledge, iii. 30;
the Sceptic's viaticum, 226. See
Doubt.
Schiller's ideal of the true Artist, i.43;
his perfection of pomp-prose, ii. 158;
Schiller, 182-219; Correspondence
with Goethe, 184; his cosmopoli-
tanism, 186; his high aims, 188;
literary life and struggles, 189; con-
nexion with Goethe, 198; illness
and quiet heroism, 199; his charac-
ter, and mode of life, 203; intellec-
tual gifts, 206 ; contrast between
the Robbers and the Maid of Or-
Means, 211; Song of the Alps, 216;
his philosophy, 217. See Madame
de Staël.
Schlegel, Friedrich, iii. 24.
Schleiermacher, iv., 189.
Scotch metaphysics, i. 60; ii. 103 (see
Mechanical Philosophy); national
character, iv. 150, 319.
Scott, Sir Walter, iv. 135-184; great
man, or not a great man, 143; one
of the healthiest of men, 147, 157;
an old Borderer, in new vesture,
148; early environment, 149; in-
fancy and young-manhood, 151;
Metrical Romances, and worldly
prosperity, 156, 160; his connexion
with the Ballantynes, 158; influ-
ence of Goethe, 161; the Author of
Waverley, 163 ; not much as a
Letter-writer, 164; dinner with the
Prince-Regent, 164; birtheve of a
Waverley Novel, 166; life at Ab-
botsford, 167; literary value of the
Waverley Novels, 173; extempore
writing, 177; bankruptcy, 181; a
lºy, brave, impoverished man,
18
Scoundrelism, significance of, iv. 53.
Selborne, Natural History of, iii. 47.
Self-forgetfulness, Werner's notion of,
i. 89; how good men practise it,
236. See Renunciation.
Self-interest, political systems founded
on, ii. 50, 52,
Self-worship, iii. 121.
Seneca, our niceliest proportioned
Half-and-half, iii. 226.
Sentimentalist, the, barrenest of mor-
tals, iii. 7; Goethe's opinion of him,
#. ; puking and sprawling, iv.
48.
Shakspeare's humour, i. 13; no secta-
rian, 188; depth of insight, 193;
iii. 152; bombast, i. 204; Novalis's
thoughts on, ii. 87; good taste,
234 ; compared with Goethe, iii.
152; education, 161; compared with
#". iv. 159; not an easy writer,
394
INIDEX.
Sheep, significant resemblances be-
tween men and, iii. 67,118; iv. 136.
Shelley, iii. 24.
Siegfried, the hero of old Northern
Tradition, ii. 230, 238.
Silence the grand epitome and sum-
total of all Harmony, iii. 13; out of,
comes Strength, 66 ; significance
and sacredness of 232, 235; iv. 138.
Sincerity, the grand secret for finding
readers, i. 202; iv. 159; the most
precious of all attainments, ii. 335;
iii. 164, 247; iv. 228, 326. See Origi-
nal Man, Truthfulness, Wholeness.
Sleep, curious to think of, iv. 35.
Society, Machine of, ii. 106, 112; mi-
raculous power of association, iii. 8;
Society a second all-embracing Life,
10; wholeness, and healthy uncon-
sciousness, 11; burning-up of, 191.
Soirées, Lion-, the crowning phenome-
non of modern civilisation, iv. 135.
Songs, and their influence, i. 215; di-
vine song, iv. 325.
Sorrow, Sanctuary of, i. 183; ii. 47;
iv. 31.
Sower's Song, the, i. 354.
Space. See Time.
Speaking, difference between, and
public-speaking, iii. 277. See Con-
versation.
Sphinx-Riddle, the, ii. 269.
Spiritual, the, the parent of the Visi-
ble, ii. 267; iii. 17; rudiments of a
. era, ii. 319, 336; iii. 28, 110,
Staël's, Madame de, “Allemagne,’
Richter's review of, ii. 341; ‘Schil-
ler, Goethe and Madame de Staël,'
iii. 3]6.
Stealing generically includes the whole
art of Scoundrelism, iii.254; iv. 231.
Sterne, i. 13.
Stewart, Dugald, i. 60; his opinion of
Burns, 209; of Idealism, ii. 74.
Stilling's, Jung, experience of Goethe,
iii. 139.
Strafford, passages in the Impeach-
ment and Trial of, iv. 239.
Strength. See Silence, Wisdom.
sº; the, an early German writer,
ii. 273.
Stuart, Mary, iii. 64.
Style, every man his own, i. 15; pic-
torial power, iii. 45; eccentricities
of, 117.
Supply and demand, our grand maxim
of, i. 195,
Swabian Era, the, ii. 264; birth of
German Literature, 265, 317.
Swashbuckler age, iv. 321.
Swedenborgians in questionable com-
pany, iii. 259. -
Tale, The, translated from Goethe ;
with elucidations, iii. 324-349.
Tamerlane, ii. 3.
Taste, true poetic, not dependent on
riches, i. 30; German authors, 35;
gift of Poetry presupposes taste,
234; dilettante upholstery, 142.
Tauler, Johann, ii. 290.
Taxation, spigot of, ii. 174; iii. 63.
Taylor's Historic Survey of German
Poetry, ii. 309-337.
Teufelsdröckh, on the Greatness of
Great Men, iii. 115.
Theatrical Reports, a vapid nuisance,
i. 270. -
Thinkers, how few are, iv. 2; intel-
lectual thrift, 200.
Thought, how, rules the world, ii. 1;
iii. 107; iv. 38, 46.
Tieck, Ludwig ; his Volksmährehen
and other writings, i. 316; charac-
ter and poetic gifts, 319.
Time and Space, quidities not enti-
ties, i. 126; ii. 76; the outer veil
of Eternity, iii. 61, 169.
Times, Signs of the, ii. 98-118.
Today, i. 356; the conflux of two
Eternities, ii. 100.
Tolerance, ii. 8, 55; iii. 266.
Tongue, watch well thy, iii. 66; iv
263; miraculous gift of, iii. 183; iv.
179. See Eloquence.
Triller, der, iv. 345, 346, 363.
Trimberg, Hugo von, ii. 274, 284 ; his
Renner a singular, clear-hearted old
book, 276.
Trimmers and truckers, iii. 23; iv.
66.
Troubadour Period of Literature, ii.
265, 271.
Truthfulness, ii. 22; iii. 184; iv. 334.
See Sincerity.
Two-Hundred-and-Fifty Years ago :
a Fragment about Duels, iv. 315-
324; Holles of Haughton, 316;
Croydon Races, 318; Sir Thomas
Dutton and Sir Hatton Cheek, 321.
Tyll Eulenspiegel, adventures of, ii.
287.
Unconsciousness the first condition of
health, iii. 1, 13; the fathomless do-
main of, 232.
INDEX,
395
Universities, of Prague and of Vienna,
ii. 295; disputed seniority of Oxford
and Cambridge, iv. 312.
Untamability, iv. 23, 48.
Unveracity, iv. 329, 334. See Sin-
cerity.
Utilitarianism, i. 42, 62, 163; ii. 51,
III, 203, 329; iii. 31; Bentham's
utilitarian funeral, 126.
Valet, the, theory of Heroes, ii. 184.
Vampire-bats, Ecclesiastic, iv. 255.
Varnhagen von Ense. See Ense.
Wates and Seer, the true Poet a, iii.
107; iv.158, 325.
Vaticination, ii. 98.
Wengeur, on the Sinking of the, iv.
209-222.
Veracity. See Unveracity.
View-hunting, iii. 18.
Virgil's AEweid, iii. 41.
Wirtue, healthy and unhealthy, iii. 6;
synonyme of Pleasure, 235.
Volney, Jean Jacques and Company,
iv. 267.
Voltaire, i. 152, 163; ii. 1-56; Vol-
taire and Goethe contrasted, i. 188,
190; the man of his century, ii. 5;
adroitness, and multifarious suc-
cess, 9; rectitude, 12; essentially a
Mocker, 13; petty explosiveness,
15; vanity his ruling passion, 18;
visit to the Café de Procope, 19;
lax morality, 21; the greatest of
Persifteurs, 23; visit to Frederick
the Great, 25; his trouble with his
women, 26; his last triumphal visit
to Paris, 31; iii. 117; death, ii. 36;
his intellectual gifts, 38; criticisms
of Shakspeare, 43; opposition to
Christianity, 46; of all Frenchmen
the most French, iii. 211.
Wagram, Napoleon at, iv. 193.
Wartburg, and its immortal remem-
brances and monitions, iv. 348.
Weimar and its intellectual wealth,
iii. 145; Duke of, iv. 360; Bernhard
of 360.
Weiss, Theresa. See Heyne.
Welser, Philippine, ii. 295.
Werner, Life and Writings of, i. 66-
110; his drama of the Söhne des
Thals, 71; glimpses of hidden mean-
ing, 86; prophetic aspirations, 88;
his mother's death, 91; intercourse
with Hoffmann, 92; Kreuz an der
Ostsee, 93; Martin Luther, oder die
Weihe der Kraft, 95; his repeated
divorces, 99 ; dislike for modern
Protestantism, 100; becomes a Ca-
tholic, 102; death, 103; question-
able character, 104; a melancholy
posthumous fragment, 106.
Wettin Line of Saxon Princes, iv. 338.
White of Selborne, iii. 47.
Whole, only in the, can the Parts be
truly seen, ii. 173
Wholeness, and healthy unconscious-
ness, iii. 2, 12, 112, 236, 248.
Wieland, i. 35.
Wilhelm of Meissen, iv. 339.
Winkelmann, Johann, i. 265.
Wisdom, one man with, stronger than
all men without, ii. 112, 336; iii.
107.
Wolf, iv. 189.
Women born worshipers, iii. 121.
Worcester, Battle of, picture of the,
iv. 334.
Work, man’s little, lies not isolated,
stranded, iv. 11; how it clutches
hold of this solid-seeming world, 46.
Working classes, uneducated, and
educated Unworking, iii. 162. See
Labour.
Worms, the venerable City of, ii. 249.
Wrath, a background of, in every
man and creature, iv. 315.
Wretchedness, i. 234 ; iii. 22.
Wrong. See Right.
Youth and Manhood, i. 220 ; mud-
bath of youthful dissipations, 222.
See Education.
END.
ILONDON :
PRINTED BY LEvey, Robson, AND FRANKLYM,
Great New Street and Fetter Lane.
;*&gt;&#$2'）;
§§§§§§&
:::&aeș¡
¿
§§§§ř:
:: *.*
§§,
***¿;
săţ*: *）; *. & ? =
*
HIGAN
IC
M
.x ·
, ! （:šºſ
of
UNIVERSITY
.&. ,
**************************~*~ .….…）
·::: ~★
¿
ķšį;
ſae;};
ț¢;$$$$$$$
*ſ）;$$$§$%;}}';
§），șšķ
#######
§§
§ 3.x
ģ）;
£3.
;;&#š.
};*
¿
§§
-' ！ ！ …………–…. ：） ~~ ~~~~）
.，.，,…，-，-，-，-，*=+（?:&~&&=======*******ĒTae-
&& （~~~~, ， , ， （*?>=<！！！！！！！！-- ** ***
** ----ſ ≡ ?！*===***ț¢&&*）（.***）: ` ~ ° ′ '，
*· • × ×。aeae） š.

º
º
º
*# 8 ºf
§ºº.
º &
sº
º
:
i
º
§
§§ º º
º
§§
- §§
º
;
:
ºº
:
º:
§
§:
º:
Bºr
&
º:
:
º
†. :
ºr
º
§
§
É
§
º
º
º
ſº
ğ.
º
º:
º
§
*
;
;
º
§